


The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: Volume 2

by fragile-teacup (Mrs_Gene_Hunt)



Series: The Spaces Between [8]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Exploration, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hannibal is Hannibal, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Rimming, Sassy Will Graham, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Swearing, Touching, forced drugging, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-02 15:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8672152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Gene_Hunt/pseuds/fragile-teacup
Summary: Volume 2 of a three-volume multi-chapter fic charting Will and Hannibal's post-fall relationship journey.Picking up 3 weeks after the end of Volume 1, Volume 2 explores Will and Hannibal's evolving relationship as they settle into their new life in Argentina. Expect complications, misunderstandings, lots of talking, lots of sex and, underlying it all, the deep and irrevocable love that Hannigram shippers everywhere have recognised and rejoiced in for 39 incredible episodes (thank you, Bryan Fuller).My grateful thanks to the lovely Llewcie for beta-ing; to the wonderful wraithsonwings and PKA for listening; to the amazing Arkarti for her Volume 1 art; and to @drhanniballectermd for creating a beautiful picture of Will and Hannibal for Volume 2 (see end notes).





	1. Of Masquerades and Whimsy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mwuahna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mwuahna/gifts), [zacharybosch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacharybosch/gifts), [Weconqueratdawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/gifts), [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/gifts), [Aviran007](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Aviran007).



Will Graham is brooding.

A still, solitary figure in sombre midnight blue amidst vivid flashes of scarlet and turquoise, lilac and pink, he leans against the pop-up bar and stabs ineffectually at the ripe olive bobbing aimlessly in his drink.

For the past hour, he's relegated himself to the role of contemptuous onlooker at what has been touted as the most prestigious charity event of Buenos Aires' autumn calendar.  
Here the cream of Argentinian glitterati - actors, models, politicians, socialites and oligarchs - have come together for a night of ostentatious fund-raising in Buenos Aires' Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes in the heart of the affluent La Recoleta district. Will sees these people - their rivalries, their insecurities, their petty power plays - and despises them equally. 

Downing his third martini ('Mantener las aceitunas, por favor'), Will simultaneously orders a fourth via mime. Not exactly his tipple of choice but he has appearances to maintain.

'Doctor Luscombe!'

 _Shit._ Señora Méndez de Sotomayor, bearing down on him like an oversized flamingo on speed, all ruffled hot pink taffeta and skinny, flapping limbs. No obvious escape route so he braces himself for the excruciating conversation to come.

'I've been looking for you, you naughty man. What are you doing over here all by yourself?' she shrills, clutching a frothy cocktail and squinting up at him through false eyelashes.

_Your Chicago roots are showing, Mrs M._

Concealing his distaste, Will Graham (aka Doctor Patrick Luscombe, psychiatrist) twists away from the bar and offers a polite smile.

'Nice to see you, Señora,' he lies through his teeth, side-stepping the question. 'Are you enjoying the gala?'

At 150,000 pesos a pop, it would be a fucking tragedy if not. 

'Now, Doctor,' she pouts, batting Will's arm playfully, cerise nails scraping the worsted wool of his Savile Row tux. 'I've told you before, call me Kikki! We Americans must stick together.'

'I'm not sure _Señor_ Méndez de Sotomayor would agree,' Will comments neutrally.

'Nonsense! Franco's delighted that you've been able to help me so much already.'

For a woman with such a staggering number of neuroses, it is actually pretty impressive that she's made any progress at all after only a handful of therapy sessions. Will has never met her bank director husband, but his reputation for monetary shrewdness is well-documented. A shame the same can't be said for his choice of wife, though he certainly wouldn't be the first fifty-something multi-millionaire to have his head turned by a coquettish twenty-something model.

'Anyway, what I really want to know is,' Kikki stage whispers, leaning towards Will conspiratorially, 'who is that gorgeous man I saw you sitting with at dinner?'

_Ah, yes. That gorgeous man._

Through an arched canopy of red and purple fuchsia, Hannibal Lecter is spotlit by the incandescence of a silvery full moon, resplendent in black, slicked back hair highlighting the beautiful severity of his high cheekbones, twirling what must surely be his seventh or eighth dance partner round the terrace to the vibrant pulse of a tango.

Forcing down a hot stab of possessiveness, Will silently repeats the mantra he's been chanting in his head for the past sixty-three minutes, ever since the moment he told Hannibal to _'just go and fucking dance'_ and received a look of such sharp displeasure, it sent his heart plummeting into the soles of his Italian leather brogues: _I don't give a shit; I don't give a shit._

Trouble is, he does. That's the problem. That's _been_ the problem for the last three weeks. 

***

_Baltimore, three weeks earlier._

Hannibal hovers solicitously, checking the plastic cable ties securing Bedelia's wrists behind her back. The table is set for lunch: cold meat on a platter and exotic salad. A portion of the salad has been placed on a plate in front of Bedelia - she's going to have a harder time dealing with the meat but that, of course, is deliberate. Not just the physical difficulty to get over (though Hannibal assures her that as her teeth are in excellent condition, it should take her no longer than an hour to chew through to the centre); there's also the psychological barrier of having to gnaw on a cold cut of one's own leg.

It has been explained very carefully to the morphine-infused lady of the house. The FBI believes her to be on vacation, so no one is watching the house. To summon help, she will need her phone. The phone is inside the meat. 

'What if she starts eating the moment we leave the house?' Will asks in a quiet aside.

Hannibal shakes his head. 'Highly doubtful. Given her strong stubborn streak, Bedelia will not concede easily. I predict a long night - perhaps two - of inner battling before she is willing to take the steps necessary to free herself.'

It's a gamble but Will has to admit there's a certain poetic flair to the proceedings.

Immaculate in a red silk blouse and black pencil skirt, Bedelia looks every inch the cool professional, bound arms and amputated leg notwithstanding. Hannibal places a hand on her shoulder.

'We're leaving now, Bedelia.'

'So I see.' Slightly unfocused eyes drift past Hannibal to Will. 'Nice hat.'

A raised eyebrow is all the response Will can be bothered to muster. His initial reaction to the cream suit and matching Panama had been something along the lines of _'you've got to be joking'_ , though not couched in anywhere near such diplomatic terms. But now that he's been wearing it for a few hours, he's secretly rather taken with the ensemble. Besides, as he knows from his years of experience with the FBI, furtive behaviour is the surest way to draw attention to oneself.

Hannibal pops a straw into Bedelia's water glass, casts a final glance over the room and smirks.

'Ready, Will?'

'In a moment.' 

Strolling around Hannibal, who exits the room with the satisfied air of someone having checked off an item on a list of mundane chores, Will approaches their trussed, reluctant host. Bends. Puts his lips to her ear.

'You asked me a question once. About my feelings for Hannibal. Do you remember?'

A listless nod.

_'Do you ache for him?'_

'Would you like to know the answer?' 

Still the urge to goad, to taunt. Still brimming with rancour for the one who got there first – behind the veil. Bedelia's drowsy laugh is unexpected. Will pulls away abruptly, frowning as she looks up with wide, glittering eyes.

'Your answer, Mr Graham, has been painfully apparent since the day you chose to unleash Hannibal on the world again.' 

Will just stares as Bedelia leans towards him as far as she can without tipping over and spits out a single word, lacing the air with venom.

'Yes.'

***

'Professor Alec Lees,' Will drawls, eyes still glued to Hannibal. To his hands, skimming the slender lines of his dance partner's body as they perform a tricky dip with an aplomb that prompts impromptu applause from those standing on the terrace fringes.

Upright and breathing rapidly, Hannibal's dark-haired partner smiles coyly at him, insinuating herself even more closely into his space before emitting a shriek of laughter as he dips her again. 

Will turns abruptly away, fingers tightening around the stem of his glass as he imagines using them to squeeze the life out of Señorita Fuck-Me-Now.

'Professor?' 

From the way Kikki lingers on the title, it’s clear that professor trumps doctor. The thought of Hannibal becoming the focus of her neurotic attentions is mildly amusing.

_Hannibal Lecter, meet the female Franklyn Froideveaux._

'What's he a professor of?' 

Whatever Kikki's hoping for is unclear but her salacious tone suggests she's going to be disappointed with Will's answer.

'Fine Arts. He's a scholar - publishes in a quarterly magazine in the US. I think he's written about twelve books on the subject.'

'Fifteen, actually. Tut tut, Patrick. Your forgetfulness is not very flattering.'

And that's all it takes: Hannibal at his elbow. Blood quickens, adrenaline rushes. Sixty-five minutes of bored sulkiness forgotten in a spiked heartbeat.

'Sorry.' Not sounding sorry at all. 'Kikki Méndez de Sotomayor, allow me to present Professor Alec Lees.'

Hannibal takes Kikki's jewellery-loaded hand between both of his, murmuring honeyed compliments that might as well be spells for all she's gazing, hypnotised into his eyes. 

'Excuse me,' Will mutters, seized by the absurd urge to run from all of this - the painted dolls, the ornate halls, the stultifying scents of exotic flora, Hannibal (always Hannibal) - and just _breathe_.

Makes it as far as the entrance lobby before a familiar hand on his shoulder halts him.

'Will.' Sharpness again. 'Where are you going?'

Shrugs off the hand, though all he wants to do is grab it, pull Hannibal closer, nestle into his arms. A place he's not been since, god, since Baltimore. How did that happen? 

_The plane._

'Home.' Staccato tone matching Hannibal's. 'And it's _Patrick_ , remember?'

A quick glance around confirms that they're alone but it's not like Hannibal to be so sloppy in public.

Rolls his shoulders in an effort to ease the tightness in his muscles. Avoids Hannibal's keen glance.

'I'll walk. You take the Merc.'

Hannibal clicks his tongue in a little show of annoyance. 'Nonsense. We'll go together. Collect the coats and I'll have the car driven round to the front.'

'So domesticated, _Alec_.' He’s pushing it; Hannibal's eyes darken at his mocking tone and Will revels in the danger he glimpses therein. 

He's spoiling for a fight. Has been building up to this for days, weeks - ever since the first day, the first _night_ in their new home. But the plane was the catalyst.

***

_Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, three weeks earlier._

'Six bedrooms? A gym? What possessed you?'

Rosita the steward, who will be residing in the basement apartment of their Buenos Aires home as housekeeper/cook, along with pilot husband Juan (their soon-to-be butler/chauffeur), disappears discreetly into the forward galley as Will paces the central aisle.

'Sit down, Will.'

Totally at ease, practically lolling on the cream leather divan, Hannibal brandishes his iPad.

'It isn't as grand as you're fearing. Come and see.'

Will casts a pointed glance around the interior of the jet: cream leather chairs, butter-soft; deep pile beige carpeting; rich walnut panelling. 

'I think your idea of what constitutes grandeur is vastly different from mine.'

Still glowering, he resumes his seat beside Hannibal, pulls off his tie and tosses it aside in a gesture of frustration. Glances at the screen and blanches again.

'Fourteen fucking bathrooms? Are we opening a hotel?'

'You know,' Hannibal comments casually, forefinger flicking unhurriedly through the gallery of photographs, 'I would not tolerate such language from anyone else.'

'Lucky me,' Will snaps, settling back nevertheless in capitulation. 'Okay, show me.'

Looks through the endless sequence of pictures and tries to take it all in: fifteen thousand square feet, handmade marquetry floors, a billiards room, a wine cellar, and a roof deck with an outdoor kitchen, dining area and plunge pool. _Wait – a plunge pool?_

Congratulates himself on the calm he's projecting - even feels a traitorous sense of excitement begin to take hold as Hannibal outlines their new identities.

'I'm a psychiatrist?'

_Really, Hannibal?_

'Not a million miles from your former occupation. And you will have your pick of English-speaking clientele. They are already lining up to meet you; I’ve ensured that your reputation for excellence has preceded you.'

'Bored, pampered expatriates?'

'Whatever appeals to your sense of whimsy. To help or harm - it will be entirely up to you.'

A sidelong glance at Hannibal. 'Speaking of whimsy, the names you've chosen for us...'

'No one will make the connection, Will. Unless you shared the conversation we had that night with Uncle Jack?'

Memories from an evening long ago in Hannibal's office float between them.

_Patroclus and Achilles._  
_Battle-tested friendships._  
_Firelight and first kisses..._

Will swallows. Hard. 'No, I didn't.' 

At a time of divided loyalties and divisive emotions, he'd hoarded their conversations with a greed born of desperate defiance; stowed them away in his memory palace where Jack Crawford and the FBI could never touch them; replayed them again and again, with masochistic attention to detail, in the bleak months of loneliness following Hannibal's escape to Europe.

'Then there is no reason to be concerned.' Hannibal doesn't look up from the iPad.

A sudden impulse - a need - to touch and be touched. It’s been forty-eight hours since their lazy, easy kitchen embrace. Since then, they’ve been subsumed by their escape plans. Dealing with Bedelia. Leaving. Will shifts fractionally closer, inching his hand along the back of the divan until it rests a tantalising inch from the nape of Hannibal’s neck.

Realises he’s talking again and tunes in to listen.

'And this is your room. Ensuite, with a dressing room attached.’

‘My room?’

_I need a room?_

From easy banter to awkward silence in two syllables.

Hannibal clears his throat. ‘Yes. I made sure that it was decorated to your taste, though of course you are free to make whatever changes you wish. It is a large suite, affording plenty of privacy.’

Looks more closely at the pictures. Plain walls. Sturdy wooden furnishings. A colour scheme of cream, caramel and chocolate. Rustic. Subtle. Warm. Wolf Trap. His dogs. Nothing of Hannibal. Not a trace.

He knows – he knows he should be grateful. Thinks he even knows what Hannibal is trying to do. To give him. An island of simplicity amidst a sea of ostentation. But it’s vast – as big as an apartment – and all he feels is a cold sense of impending isolation. Abandonment. 

_What about us?_

As he stares, frozen, at the screen, a destructive maggot of insecurity burrows into his heart and starts whispering poison. 

_He doesn’t want you. Not the way you want him._  
_He’s never kissed you first, has he?_  
_You’ve been a pleasant diversion. Like Alana…_

His stomach plunges. Humiliation bites deep. So he lies, feeling his way carefully around the words, like splinters of glass in his mouth.

‘Yeah, thanks. Some breathing space will do us both good. It’s been – pretty intense.’

The briefest of pauses before Hannibal replies. 

‘Of course. I want you to be comfortable, Will.’

_God, he’s being so polite._

Tries to smile but it comes out horribly twisted. Doesn’t really matter because Hannibal’s not looking at him. So he makes a show of feeling tired and retreats to one of the single chairs. Reclines it and tries to sleep, but stumbles off the plane at the end of the eleven hour flight hollow-eyed and cold inside.


	2. Of Silences and Beauty

They exchange precisely six words on the short drive from the museum to their six storey Beaux Arts townhouse on the fashionable Avenida Alvear.

'I'll park the car.'

'Okay. Goodnight.'

Will practically falls out of the Maybach in his hurry to get away.

His single footsteps echo drearily through the austere entrance hall. Uneasy silences have accumulated with increasing regularity in the three weeks since their arrival in Buenos Aires. Feels their clinging, dragging weight as he mounts the cantilevered staircase. Alone. Again.

_My fault?_

After the plane, a defensive wall erected, raised a little higher with every polite 'good morning', every exchange of civilities over dinner across the vast mahogany dining table, every muted ‘goodnight’.

Their suites are on the fifth floor, below the roof deck. Will has ventured into Hannibal's only once. On the day of their arrival, trailing dutifully through the house on an inspection tour, a fixed smile on his face and a nagging ache in his heart.

_'Is Hannibal in love with me?'_

Never questioning what 'in love' would mean to Hannibal; never realising how much of his own ache was physical until its consummation was denied him.

Reaches the sanctuary of his room and sinks down onto the edge of the bed. Recalls Hannibal's reactions to his kisses. Always acceptance and enjoyment, but Alana would doubtless say the same. Take-it-or-leave-it transient physical pleasure is not what Will wants from Hannibal Lecter. 

And there's the other ache that isn't being assuaged. After all the masquerading and hiding - from Hannibal, from Jack, most of all from himself - the glorious agony of his Becoming promised a transformation. Base metal to quicksilver. Yet here they are, still imprisoned within the tedium of mundane lives.

So deep in thought, he doesn't hear Hannibal walk in. Just has time to register that he must have left the bedroom door open before he's blinking up in confusion because suddenly Hannibal's right there in front of him.

'Will. This has to stop.' 

Right there in front of him, so stern, so remote, and all Will wants to do is reach out, smash through all this terrible separateness. As he did on the bluff. As he did in Baltimore. Or tried to, at least.

Like a shaded flower desperately seeking the sun, he leans in to rest his forehead against Hannibal's chest. 

'I could leave.'

Hannibal stands rigid, unresponsive. His reply, when it comes, is stripped of emotion.

'Where would you go?'

Pain, sharp and fierce - that they're actually discussing this; that after everything, Hannibal would let him go.

'Anywhere. Nowhere.' Has to force the words out. 'I don't know. But perhaps, for a while, to figure things out.'

Silence stretches brittle between them. Then...

'Don't leave.' Typically autocratic, yet underpinning the hauteur a gentler note, almost akin to pleading.

'I don't _want_ to go.' Will looks up, stirred to action. A chance to finally clear the air between them. (And, god, they should have done this _weeks_ ago.) 'But this - polite routine we've fallen into - is a lie. A façade of normalcy. Why are we still pretending?'

But Hannibal looks merely exasperated.

'When you imagined our life here, what did you foresee, Will? A bloody rampage across South America, raising holy hell?'

Not the façade Will’s thinking of in this moment.

_But now that you mention it…_

'Would that have been so unlikely?’ Tone clipped, eyes challenging. ‘I know you, Doctor. Atrophy, losing your sense of self - these are the things you fear the most.'

A moment when they simply stare at one another, neither willing to budge. Then suddenly Hannibal's pushing further into Will’s space, nudging his knees apart. Will feels the blush rushing to his cheeks, too surprised to react even when he registers the annoyingly smug look on Hannibal's face.

But every trivial thought melts away as Hannibal takes Will’s face between his hands - those beautiful hands Will has been staring at all evening - and strokes his thumb across the now-fading scar on Will's cheek. Eyes the colour of dark fire hold him in thrall and when Hannibal sighs, deep and long, Will feels the reverberations in his bones.

'No, Will. The thing I fear most is losing you.'

Stupid, the tears welling in his eyes, spilling extravagantly onto Hannibal's starched, pristine shirt and soaking into the fabric.

Flustered, embarrassed, Will grabs the lapels of Hannibal's tuxedo, tugs him closer. 

'Be honest.' A vicious whisper. 'This isn't what you wanted for us.' 

'No,' Hannibal says. 'It isn't.'

Fear grips him. Powerless to prevent the reactionary shudders that wrack his body. But Hannibal’s sliding a hand around to cradle the back of his head. Gentle, reassuring. It calms him, centres him.

'Sometimes, Will, circumstance demands caution. To hunt with you - to witness again your willing surrender to the urges which for so long you suppressed – is my greatest desire.' 

'But?'

Hannibal bends, brushes his lips across Will's temple. 

_What's happening?_

'What would you say is our best option, given our current status at the top of Uncle Jack's Most Wanted list?' 

So hard to think, let alone speak, when all he wants is so close. So close. But he plays along.

'To lie low.'

'Mm.'

Hannibal tilts his chin until their lips are millimetres apart.

_What. Is. Happening?_

'For how long?'

Other words – words he's spoken before – rising up inside him. A different context now but their basic truth unchanged.

_I need you, Hannibal. Please._

Their eyes lock.

'For as long as - for - Will,' Hannibal mutters with uncharacteristic unsteadiness. 'Will.'

And his lips are crushed beneath Hannibal's, hot and wet and urgent. And they're falling again; into the softness of a mattress, into each other. Hannibal breaks off and just looks at him, an expression of such soft wonder in his eyes, it makes Will ache. Then he's kissing him again; slow, deep, languorous. And Will’s kissing back, fervently, passionately, determined to communicate his total surrender. To this. To _them_. 

_We._  
_Us._

Gasps as Hannibal reaches between them and strokes Will's rapidly filling cock. A moan ripped from his throat as he arches up into Hannibal's hand, words spilling out almost haphazardly.

'Oh fuck, oh yes. Touch me, Hannibal. Please.'

A feeling of glorious release as his zipper's pulled down and those long fingers reach inside his boxers, trembling slightly as they free him from confinement. 

_For you._

Hannibal is silent, eyes glued to Will's swaying cock, and Will would be self-conscious if he wasn't so incredibly aroused. And relieved beyond measure.

_You do want me. I was wrong. I was wrong._

When Hannibal rubs his thumb across the leaking slit, the pleasure is so intense all Will can do is gasp and writhe beneath him. And the bastard's actually humming as he coats Will's cock with the slippery precome and squeezes the base before working his hand tightly up and down, up and down, over and over again.

'Oh god, oh god.' Eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched, glorying in the onset of orgasm.

A few more strokes and he’s coming in milky stripes all over Hannibal's hand and their clothing.

It takes Will several breathless moments to notice the obvious tenting of Hannibal's pants and the deep flush warming those sharp cheekbones. So tempting, so easy, so natural to reach out and rub Hannibal's thickened cock through his pants. Will's turn now to incite desperate sighs and urgent moans. Hannibal groans Will's name, rutting into his hand. And it's such a turn-on to see the master of control undone by a simple caress. Will arches up to kiss him, thrusting his tongue hotly past Hannibal's lips, and then Hannibal's coming, hips jerking in violent spasms.

Both still fully dressed, both too overwhelmed to do anything but relieve the immediate ache of untold years.

Will buries his face in the crook of Hannibal's neck, breathes him in - earthy warmth and salt and _Hannibal_.

'I thought you were getting bored with me,' he confesses, mouth still pressed against Hannibal's skin so his words are muffled. 'Disappointed by unfulfilled promise.'

Hannibal lifts his head and flashes a rare grin, warming Will to the core. 'The last thing I feel is unfulfilled.' 

As he strokes Will’s hair back, Will pushes greedily into the touch. 

'This is not all I wanted for us, Will.'

His tender smile tugs at something deep inside.

'But it's still beautiful.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read Hannibal's POV of the events in this chapter [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7726447).


	3. Of Reflecting and Reconnecting

They roll onto their sides facing each other, perfectly in synch for the first time since Baltimore. Wanting to be close. Impulsively, Will slips his hand beneath Hannibal's jacket, places his palm flat against his heart, against the gradually slowing beat. Hannibal covers Will's hand with his own.

'Better?'

'For now.'

A mischievous grin. Enjoys watching Hannibal's pupils dilate, feeling him shift a little closer, hearing the huskiness creep back into his voice.

'That wasn't exactly what I meant.'

'I know.' The grin fades. 'I'm sorry I closed off from you. It's been a shitty few weeks.'

Hannibal tsks but slots their fingers together in a comforting gesture.

'No apologies, Will. Who was it who wrote that remorse is the poison of life?'

'Probably some pretentious prick who prefers spewing out trite sound bites to dealing with life's messy realities.'

Hannibal crooks a brow. 'Is that aimed at me?'

'Huh? No! God, no.' Squeezes Hannibal's fingers apologetically. 'Sorry. Flippancy is a bad habit of mine.'

'So I've noticed, many times.' But there is only gentle amusement in Hannibal's eyes. He shifts a little on the bed, looks down at their wrecked clothing. 'We ought really to move.'

'Yeah.' 

Doesn't budge an inch except to trail the back of his free hand across Hannibal's cheek. Hannibal catches it and brings it to his lips.

'A shower would not do either of us any harm.' 

Both suites have adjoining wet rooms: sleek lines in marble and glass, with wide rectangular shower heads built into the ceilings.

 _Both_ suites.

Rolling onto his back, Will pushes his hands through his hair, stares straight up.

'Yeah, okay.'

'Will?' 

Hannibal props his head on his hand, gaze shrewd. 

'Should we perhaps talk about _why_ you closed off?'

Will sighs. 'It's late. We're both tired. Can we pick this up in the morning?'

'If you prefer.'

Senses Hannibal's reluctance and shoots him a smile: warm, genuine.

'Will you make me breakfast?'

Since their arrival, Rosita has prepared every meal, serving them either in the ground floor dining room or on the roof deck. Discreet and loyal (it's a family thing, apparently), the servants have complete freedom in the house, although two non-negotiable rules have been laid down by Hannibal: they are not allowed to enter the top two storeys before noon or after serving the first course of dinner _al fresco._ This, Will surmises, is in preparation for the day Hannibal decides it’s safe for meat to go back on the menu. 

Hannibal looks inordinately pleased by the request.

'Of course.'

'Bacon and scrambled eggs?'

_Our Baltimore breakfast._

'It will be my pleasure.'

Sitting up, Hannibal leans across and brushes his lips over Will's. Soft. Dry. Lingering just a little. Will closes his eyes at the feather-light touch, barely resisting the urge to grab Hannibal and pull him down again. He keeps his eyes closed and waits until Hannibal’s at the door before murmuring a goodnight. Takes comfort in the fact that Hannibal's reply is issued in a voice as husky as his own.

The shower strips Will of his remaining tension. Padding back into the bedroom, he crosses to the dressing room, shrugs into a clean white cotton t-shirt and blue boxers, and dumps the ruined tux in the laundry box. Clicks off the light and gets into bed.

A shroud of silence descends and his thoughts drift back to another night in this house. Their first.

***

_Buenos Aires, three weeks earlier._

After the grand tour, a respite. Unpacking and an afternoon siesta. In their separate suites. 

Will can hardly bring himself to unzip his suitcase. Lies motionless on the bed for two hours, eyes trained on the door, willing Hannibal to come to him as he did in Baltimore. A fruitless exercise. 

Dinner in the starkly beautiful dining room - white panelled plaster, gilt mirrors and corniced windows. It is an excruciating affair: forced cheerfulness followed by strained politeness with a side of awkward silence. The first meal Will has shared with Hannibal prepared and served by another's hand. Separateness. Division. It seems an appropriate metaphor. Between courses, he darts slicing glances at Hannibal, who barely looks up from his plate except to take long sips of amber wine.

No lingering afterwards, no whiskey poured or confidences shared. Only a bleak trudge, side by side, up to the fifth floor. Will's door the first they reach. He bites out a goodnight and that's when Hannibal finally looks at him, expression strained.

'Is everything alright, Will? You've been very quiet since we arrived.'

Scrubs his face with his hands and looks anywhere but at Hannibal.

'Jet lag, I guess. Sorry. I'll be better tomorrow.'

Knows that he won't.

Steps into his suite and closes the door on all the sweet hopes and possibilities that had in Baltimore seemed just within his grasp.

***

Hannibal's suite is identical to Will's in layout. But there the similarity ends. On the king size bed, a palette of reds – burgundy, maroon and plum – complement the solid walnut flooring, rust velvet drapes and bronze ceiling fan. Dotted with antique furniture, paintings by Old Masters hanging on the striped silk walls, it’s rich and ornate and bold. It’s Hannibal.

Will stands in the doorway, leaning against the post. Through the open drapes, moonlight steals in to cast a silver sheen on Hannibal’s naked torso, the gentle rise and fall of his chest visible in the subdued light. One arm is up by his head, the other flung out straight across the bed. The sheets tangled around his hips reveal that he is wearing black silk pyjama bottoms.

This is where Will wants to be. Needs to be. _Aches_ to be. Even if only for a few stolen moments before he forces himself to return to his big, cold bed.

'Will?' 

He starts violently.

'Jesus, Hannibal. I thought you were asleep.'

'Evidently.'

A guilty flush invades his cheeks. 'Sorry.'

Hannibal raises himself on his elbows, silvery strands of hair spilling into his eyes. 

'Is something wrong? I thought we were going to talk again in the morning.'

'Yeah, about that.' A tentative step into the room and a snap decision. Closes the door and stands with his back against it. Hannibal's eyes widen fractionally but he makes no comment. Emboldened, Will smiles.

'Funny thing. I missed you.'


	4. Of Touching and Learning

Like fragile motes, the words float on the air between them. Will's pulse flutters in time with their erratic dance. Instinct has brought him to Hannibal's door but if he's wrong...

Hannibal quirks a brow. 'You were feeling lonely?'

The teasing tone prompts a rush of adrenaline and, finally, movement.

'No.' Pushes himself off the door and strolls across the room until he's standing at the end of the bed. Smooths his hand over the quilt, eyes still on Hannibal. Cool plushness beneath his fingertips. 'I said I missed _you._ '

Amber eyes gleam darkly. 

'Will.' Softly. 'Come here.'

The smile they share, he thinks dazedly, could light up the world.

Walks around to the empty side of the bed, folds back the covers and climbs in. Without pause, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. A gentle shifting to accommodate each other. Hannibal lies back and tugs Will into his side. Head pillowed in the crook of Hannibal's neck, Will closes his eyes and just _breathes._

The sense of peace, of completion, of _home_ is overwhelming. 

'Now,' Hannibal says quietly. 'Tell me.'

'Hm. Not so easy,' Will murmurs, fumbling in the dark for words buried deep. Hannibal says nothing, just strokes a soothing hand across his back. 

'I thought you didn't want me,' he admits at last. 'Like this. Or at least, that you didn't want the _complication_ of this. That you were regretting what we started in Baltimore.'

A huff of disbelief. 'What in the world could have led you to believe that?'

'Oh, I don't know.' Defensiveness makes him waspish. 'Maybe it had something to do with the enormous suite you installed me in, or the acres of privacy you were intent on giving me.'

He can _feel_ Hannibal smiling, lips warm against Will's temple.

'The suite was a mistake? I should have just moved you in here with me? Presented it as a fait accompli?' 

Will stiffens, pinpricks of annoyance tightening his spine, threatening the fragile calm. Doesn't pull away but tension roughens his reply.

'Don't be facetious. You know what I'm saying. You should have consulted me.'

The hand on his back stills.

'Reciprocity in all things?'

'And transparency.'

A light sigh breathed into his hair.

'Considering our shared history, that is an entirely understandable desire. But the house was purchased before you regained consciousness, Will. I was unsure whether you would agree even to reside in the same property, let alone share my bed.'

‘Ah. Hence fifteen thousand square feet and fourteen bathrooms.’

‘Hence.’

Still lingering on _‘share my bed'._ Such possessive phrasing. Tucked against Hannibal, the warmth of smooth skin beneath his cheek, the coolness of satin-clad hard muscle against his thighs, Will begins to feel the sparking heat of a familiar ache.

'When I made the decision to leave Maine, and again when I saw you behind the glass that first day, I felt it,' he admits, chest tightening at the memory of guarded words and desperate eyes. 

_'Are we no longer on a first-name basis?'_

'Felt what?'

Shifts onto his belly and rests his chin on Hannibal's shoulder. 

'A pervading sense of... inevitability. And on the bluff I knew it for sure.'

'There you were triumphant. You won the battle.'

'And lost the war.'

'Hm. Do you regret it?'

Hannibal's voice is even but an underlying strain tugs at something deep inside Will. He feels for Hannibal's hand, slips his own beneath it. 

'I followed my own nature. I looked into the void. And when I tried to cast us both into it, it spat us back out.' Turns his palm, fingers tangling with Hannibal's. 'I'm done with regret.'

Hannibal's other hand resumes its stroking, circling lower and lower until Will feels the brush of fingertips against bare skin where his t-shirt has ridden up at the back.

The slow-building ache intensifies and he presses his face into Hannibal's skin in an effort to prevent a groan escaping. 

'I'm glad to hear it. Never doubt that this is exactly where I want you, Will.'

'Oh, my capacity for doubt is unending.'

But Hannibal's words, tenderly spoken, salve the last of the hurt. Time to focus on _now_ , on _them_ , on all the glorious possibilities that renewed understanding and closeness have opened up.

_Time for We._   
_Time for Us._

Will pushes himself up on one elbow and extricates his hand from Hannibal's. Reaches to stroke a forefinger across Hannibal's brow, brushing aside a few errant strands of hair. Traces the contours of that aristocratic face, pausing to explore the imperfections that time and circumstance have wrought. Lines sculpted by age. Scars sculpted by enmity. All equally beautiful to Will.

'What are you doing?' Amusement, but underlying that a certain tremulous anticipation that sends an answering shiver through Will. 

'Learning you,' he enunciates with decisive relish.

'You already know me.' 

'Not like this.'

Not like Alana or the nameless, faceless lovers who came before. Resentment swells and he forces it down. Jealousy of sexual ghosts is a ridiculous notion. Yet the desire to erase them is strong.

Draws a line down that stubborn chin and over the Adam's apple that bobs convulsively. Lays his palm flat on Hannibal's chest and spreads his fingers wide, enjoying the sensation of crisp hair curling over firm pectoral muscles. His thumb brushes a nipple and Hannibal shudders. A pleasing reaction. He repeats the motion, rubbing softly, fascinated by the way the little nub stiffens and tightens. Dances his fingers across to the other nipple and strokes there too. Hannibal doesn't utter a word but the hand on Will's back suddenly dives lower, breaching the waistband of his boxers to smooth over the globes of his ass. When Will jerks in surprise, Hannibal squeezes in admonishment.

_Oh, I see. Tit for tat._

Surging up, Will takes Hannibal's bottom lip between his teeth and sucks hard, before pulling away and fixing Hannibal with a look of mock-severity.

'Patience, Doctor. You'll have your chance. Now kindly remove your hand so I can continue.'

Loves Hannibal's deep, throaty chuckle as he complies. Loves the expression of awed affection in Hannibal's eyes as he lies supine on the bed. Presses a kiss to the centre of his chest as a thank you.

When he reaches the Dragon's scar, a pause as he caresses the rough outline of the exit wound.

_'No greater love hath man.'_

'This could have been me,' he murmurs, 'You made sure it wasn't.'

_And then I threw you off a goddamn cliff._

Shakes his head, a sudden tightness in his chest. Eyes closing on a wave of self-recrimination.

'Will.'

A gentle voice brings him out of it.

'Stay here, Will. Stay with me.'

Forces himself to meet the gaze of the man lying beside him and thinks, _You're so beautiful. Is it possible there was ever a time when I didn't notice that?_ Manages a tiny smile of reassurance.

'I'm here. I'm with you.'

'Then show me. Touch me.'

Need.   
Want.  
Longing.

Unspooling between them, pulling taut. Flushed faces and breathy voices.

'Yes. _God_ , yes.'

Will rises to his knees and shoves the covers to the end of the bed in a messy concertina. Hannibal's pyjama bottoms are tented obscenely and he feels an answering throb in his own cock but he ignores it. Right now, all he wants to do is give.

Fingertips graze the stretched satiny material and come away slightly sticky from the moisture that has seeped through. Lifts his eyes to Hannibal's face.

'May I?'

A quick nod the only response but it's all Will needs. 

'Lift your hips.'

Hardly recognises his own voice: husky, strained. The intimacy of the moment is almost unbearable.

Gently he eases down the waistband, peels the pyjama bottoms off completely, drops them on the floor at the side of the bed and then, only then, allows himself to look his fill.

Utterly naked. Utterly aroused. Utterly exquisite. Amber eyes glowing with fervent need.

Hannibal's cock stands flushed and proud. Dusky pink, thick, uncut. Begging for Will's touch. His hand. His mouth.

The thought doesn't scare him. Just another first in a string of firsts with Hannibal and he wants it. Wants it so badly, his heart is pounding out of his chest. Wants to watch all that coiled energy unravel and know that he's responsible. Wants to see Hannibal's face alight with pleasure and know that it's for him. Only for him. Straddles Hannibal's hips and reaches out.

A light touch at first, fingers running up and down the length. Velvet over steel. Then bolder. Stroking, encircling. A firm grasp and a few experimental pumps. Hannibal moans, hips rising into Will's touch, and the sense of power is almost overwhelming. Moisture wells at the tip and Will bends low, taking it into his mouth. Swirls his tongue around, loving the slick feel and the bittersweet taste as his hand tightens, pulling back the foreskin so he can lick and suck at the engorged head. He jerks faster and feels the weight of a hand on his head, fingers digging into his scalp. Doesn't stop. Doesn't look up. Takes as much as he can and keeps going, pulling harsh groans from the man lying beneath him. Can tell from Hannibal's erratic breathing that he's close.

_Come for me. Come for me, my darling._

Presses his tongue to the underside of Hannibal's cock and feels him drawing up tight; hears the hoarse cry of release as liquid heat spills onto his tongue, filling his mouth. A succession of swallows, determined to catch every precious drop. Hannibal's fingers flex in his hair, moving to cup the back of his head as Will pulls off and crawls up Hannibal's body. He's desperately hard now. Rubs himself against Hannibal's stomach to ease the ache; figures he'll rut himself to completion. But it seems Hannibal has other ideas and he finds himself flipped onto his back. Hannibal leans over him, eyes glittering tender fire.

'Quid pro quo, Will.' 

He takes Will's mouth in a deep, slow kiss. Licks the remains of his own release from Will's lips. It's so arousing, Will almost comes right then. Hannibal's hands are pushing up his t-shirt, fingering his nipples, caressing his body in fevered exploration. 

‘Ah, Will. I have long desired to taste you.’

'Please,' Will begs, as those clever hands strip off his boxers and grasp his hips to keep him pinned to the bed. 'Please.' Knows exactly what he wants and whimpers when he gets it. Hannibal's mouth, that beautiful mouth, sealed around his cock. Cheeks hollowed, sucking, taking him deep, surrounding Will with tight, wet heat. 

'Oh my god.'

Panting, biting into the fist he's jammed into his mouth in an effort to muffle his moans. Comes so hard, he's dizzy from it. And Hannibal swallows him down, only pulling off when the last violent judders of release have faded to tiny ripples.

They lie on their backs for a few moments, stunned, breathless. Will rolls onto his side and curls into Hannibal. Puts a hand over his heart and finds his fingers caught in a tight clasp. 

'Will?'

'Mm?'

'You are moving in here with me.'

Smiles drowsily. 'A fait accompli, huh?'

'Yes.' A beat. 'How does that make you feel?'

Presses a kiss to Hannibal's shoulder. 'Pretty fucking great.'


	5. Of Possessiveness and Claiming

Will's not surprised when he wakes to find the space beside him unoccupied. A restless night was to be expected - their Baltimore nap notwithstanding, it's been years since Hannibal's shared a bed with anyone and exactly never since Will's shared one with a man.

Fragments of moments from the previous night dance behind his eyelids: firm muscle beneath his fingertips, warm lips at his temple, tangled limbs and smiling eyes. Whispered words and gentle hands soothing him in sleep.

Sits up and casts around for his boxers but there's no sign. He decides on a whim to borrow a pair of Hannibal's. Heads into the dressing room and finds what he's looking for in the third drawer he checks - rows and rows of silk boxers, individually folded into impossibly tiny rectangles. _Freak,_ he thinks fondly. Grabs a burgundy pair, pulls them on and heads back to his room to shower, shave and change. Jeans and a white button-down. Bare feet. 

Twenty minutes later he walks into the kitchen. Light and airy, it's his favourite room in their museum of a house, a blend of old and new: distressed cabinets, open shelves, two enormous old farm sinks and a range of sleek, modern appliances. 

Bacon sizzles gently in a cast iron skillet on the range. A glass bowl filled with thick, frothy beaten eggs stands beside it. No sign of Hannibal, but Will is ready with an affectionate greeting when he's pulled up short by the sight of Rosita, coat buttoned up and tablet in hand, leaning against the central island as she taps something out. She pauses, frowns, and directs an incredulous question to the open storeroom door. 

'¿Estás seguro?'

'Sí.' Hannibal's voice, amusement colouring that one word.

Rosita shrugs, closes the cover, straightens up and slips the tablet into her bag.

'Bien. I will try.'

She sees Will and smiles warmly. 'Good morning, Señor Will.' 

Will strolls forward and, for something to do, grabs a turner from the wall rack and starts flipping the bacon strips. 'Buenos días, Rosita. Going shopping?'

'In a manner of words.' Inclines her head towards the store cupboard. 'That one, he has some funny notions.'

Pauses. 'Why? What's he up to now?'

A wave of her slender hand. 'Don't worry. Is nothing bad.'

No need for pretence here, thank god. Juan and Rosita's devotion to Hannibal rivals Chiyoh's. Will's a little fuzzy on the details but he knows they all have a connection stretching back decades and he instinctively likes the couple. Both in their early 50s, both reasonably fluent in several languages including English. Rosita, with her black hair pulled back into an habitual bun, dark intelligent eyes and delicately pointed face, reminds Will a little of Chiyoh. 

It takes Will a few moments to realise that Rosita's gone but he knows the instant Hannibal emerges from the storeroom. Hears the clink of glass on marble and darts a quick glance round before refocusing on the bacon.

'Hi. I thought I'd better step in.'

Disarmingly casual in a red v-neck cashmere sweater and tan pants, Hannibal deposits an array of condiment bottles on the island.

'I left it on a very low heat. There was no danger of it burning. But thank you for the thought.'

'You're welc...'

Words dry up as he feels arms wrapping around him from behind; closes his eyes as Hannibal leans in and rests his chin on Will's shoulder. 

'Good morning.'

The rasp of Hannibal's stubbled jaw against his neck is causing Will's stomach to do backflips. It's fucking ridiculous. But his libido's on fire and he's semi-hard when he turns to plant a clumsy kiss at the edge of Hannibal's mouth. Before he can retreat, Hannibal moves his head a fraction and captures Will's mouth properly, kissing him with a thoroughness that leaves them both breathless.

Turning back to the bacon takes some effort. 

'Did you sleep well?' Mercifully, Hannibal releases him and sets about laying the small rustic dining table set beneath the window.

'Tolerably.' A mischievous impulse prompts him to add, 'I wonder how you can sleep at all with so many damned pillows.'

Hannibal halts his movements, brows arched. 'Are you complaining about the aesthetics of my bed, Will?'

Purses his lips in a pretence of thoughtfulness. 'I wouldn't say I was complaining. Merely curious.'

'Fortunate for you. Otherwise I might have held back my invitation.'

'For?'

'The closing night performance of La bohème at the Teatro Colón this evening. I happen to have a spare ticket.'

Will hides his smile. 'Are you asking me out on a date, Doctor Lecter?'

Hannibal has no such compunction, eyes positively sparkling as he makes his final adjustments to the place settings. 'If I were, would you be amenable?'

The bacon's done. Transferring the skillet to a cooling rack, Will gestures to the bowl with the turner. 

'I tell you what, you do something with that and I'll consider it.'

***

The Teatro Colón is an island of light - an enchanted Renaissance castle amidst a black sea of traffic.

Juan, sharp features tense as he negotiates the Saturday evening jam, swings the metallic blue Maybach off the main road and joins the queue of limousines lining up outside the opera house's spotlit façade. 

'Gracias, Juan. Good job. It's crazier than usual on the roads tonight.'

'De nada, Señor Will. I hope you both have an enjoyable evening.' 

Will exits the car, the warm press of Hannibal's hand on the small of his back as he follows. It's the first time they've touched since breakfast; Hannibal's been absent for most of the day. After a morning spent working together in companionable silence in the second floor study, a call from Rosita prompted his disappearance on the grounds that she had managed to source 'a valuable acquisition' ( _probably a goddamn harpsichord_ ) and wanted Hannibal to see it for himself. Returning with barely enough time to shower and change, he's being amusingly secretive on the subject.

The foyer is a glamorous swirl of Gucci, Chanel, Versace. Heads turn as Will and Hannibal enter. Hannibal, Will decides, is easily the most striking man in the room, from the exquisite cut of his midnight blue suit, teamed with a long, thin, black silk tie and gleaming silver cufflinks, to the rakish sweep of his silver-streaked hair. Pride swells. 

_This man is mine._

Champagne and effervescent chit-chat. Extravagant air-kissing; the air heavy with 'darlings'. 

A small group swoops in on Hannibal. Clearly, in their three weeks of estrangement, he's been busy making friends. Will hangs back, tries not to mind... Until realisation dawns that the loudest, clingiest vulture in the pack is Señorita Fuck-Me-Now from the gala. 

_Jesus, was that really only last night?_

Accepting a tall flute of amber liquid from a passing waiter, Will wanders over to the edge of the room and watches the spectacle unfold: a hair toss as she gesticulates extravagantly, a teasing curl of her over-painted lips, and a whole damn lot of unnecessary touching.

Suddenly becomes aware that he's no longer alone. 

'They gravitate to him, don't they?'

A beautiful young man with a mop of curly black hair and a ridiculously seductive Spanish accent sips from his glass and smirks in Will's direction, though his dark eyes are fixed on Hannibal. At a guess, Will would place him in his mid-twenties.

'I'm sorry, who?' Feigns ignorance because there's something about the man-boy's tone that stiffens his spine and he wants to know how he'll address...

'Alec.'

'Alec?'

_Fucking what?_

'Professor Lees.' Man-boy proffers his hand. 'My name is Antonio. Antonio Bello.'

_Of course it is._

Forces himself to do the polite thing and reciprocate. 'Patrick Luscombe.' Tries to hold back the question but fails instantly. 'How do you know _Alec_?'

A bashful grin which does nothing to lower Will's blood pressure. 'We are both lovers, as they say, of the Fine Arts. The conciertos and the óperas.'

_Figures._

'Alec is the newest member of our musical society.' A calculated pause. 'I saw you walk in together.'

_Yeah, I'll bet you did._

Exquisite Antonio, all luxuriant curls and limpid eyes. So polite. So friendly. So pathetically easy to read.

_Is there anyone on this goddamn planet who doesn't have a crush on Hannibal Lecter?_

Mercifully, he's saved from the inevitable inquisition by the five minute warning bell. Glances over at Hannibal to find him eyeing the pair of them speculatively.

A glacial smile. 'Please excuse me, Señor Bello.'

They rendezvous at the foot of the main staircase on a luxuriant strip of red carpeting which criss-crosses the foyer in dramatic stripes and runs like a river of blood up to the first floor. Will picks off a long, dark strand of hair from Hannibal's shoulder and shoots him a glare. 

'It's been three weeks. How the fuck do you know all these people?'

' _Will_.'

They join the throng ascending the stairs, first-timers evident by their craning necks and expressions of wonder. Stained glass cut into domed ceilings, carved pillars and sparkling chandeliers - fairy tale garnish.

'And _these_ people? Really?'

'What is it that you object to, exactly? Their wealth? Their appreciation of art and culture?'

Hannibal's tone is cooling by the syllable. Will couldn't give a shit.

'Their affectations? Their social-climbing pretensions?'

_Their obvious desire to fuck you..._

Not another word is exchanged until they're ushered into a private box overhanging the stage. The lavishness of gilt, brass and plush crimson in a decadent sweep of lamp-lit balconies distracts Will into a temporary suspension of hostilities. 

'This is... quite something.'

'Hm. It's rather a mish-mash of styles - Italian Renaissance, Greek and French - but somehow it works.'

Settling into his seat, Will grabs a pair of opera glasses and leans forward, scanning the packed crowd. Spots Kikki and Franco Méndez de Sotomayor in a public box on the opposite side, two tiers down, and scoots back immediately. Being accosted by that shrieking, giggling bundle of immaturity and her dour, scowling spouse would really set the seal on his evening of horrors.

It takes a while, but as the action onstage unwinds, so does Will. Rodolfo takes Mimì's cold little hand in his to the melancholic strains of 'Che gelida manina' and Will's gripped by sudden yearning. For the man at his side, sternly beautiful in profile. For the rest of the audience to melt into the ether. For the world to burn...

_Mine, mine, mine._

Closes his eyes, recalling firelight and intoxicating, conflicted longing. _'Achilles wished all Greeks would die so that he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone. Took divine intervention to bring them down.'_

Flashes of Hannibal's face: upturned, open, unexpectedly vulnerable. No idea, none, that he was being played.

_You taught me too well._

Winces in exquisite pain at the memory. Familiar pain he's never put a name to. Until now. Doesn't realise he's grasped Hannibal's hand until he feels a returning squeeze. 

'Will?'

Keeps his eyes on the stage as he whispers rawly, 'Would I be enough? If we had to run again - if you had to give all of this up - would I ever be enough?'

'Will, look at me.'

Such a simple command. 

'I _can't._ ' Harsh. In the grip of a bottomless fear. That in this shining world of art and music and vivacity, Will's light will soon grow dim. Appeal lost. Abandonment expected. 

A new sensation distracts. His hand, lifted and carried to lips which bestow soft kisses of reassurance. Again and again. More persuasive than any words. Turns his eyes to Hannibal's and a sigh escapes at the glittering raw want he sees there.

'Will, since the day we met, you are all I have ever wanted.' Lips feathering the back of his hand. 'Everything else is window-dressing. Make believe. An amusement that would mean nothing if I couldn't share it with you. I learned that in Italy. For as long as I have you, I shall be content. You nourish me with the very air you breathe.'

And there it is again. Hannibal giving while Will takes. Still trying to make up for the mistakes of the past. Still apologising. Well, they've both made mistakes. Irreparable mistakes which have somehow been repaired. Unforgivable mistakes which have somehow been forgiven. And the time for apologies is over. He tugs on Hannibal's hand, carries it to his own lips and turns it palm up. Snaring Hannibal with an earnest gaze, he presses a single tender kiss to the centre. There's so much he could say in return. So many extravagant phrases he could strew like pearls before the man who would give him the world, were it in his power. But in the end, the only words he needs are the ones he's been shying away from for the last five years.

Will's voice trembles around every syllable.

'I love you, Hannibal.'


	6. Of Love and Persuasion

Will Graham is in love with Hannibal Lecter.

He's admitted it. He's admitted it and the world hasn't come to an end.

In the warm afterglow of confession, his thoughts meander into unexplored territory. How will it feel if – when – Hannibal says it back? How many times has he said it before? And has he ever actually meant it?

_Jesus, pull it together._

'The first performance of La bohème outside Italy was on this stage in 1896. Imagine. The ghosts of countless Mimìs and Rodolfos soaked into the walls, their lamentations filling the empty spaces.'

Hannibal's happy. The showmanship, the bonhomie, the debonair charm - all dialed up and brimming over. At the bar, his cluster of groupies positively salivate as he drip feeds them morsel after morsel of useless trivia. Antonio Bello and Señorita Fuck-Me-Now are the worst, expressing their admiration with wide eyes and a whole lot of unnecessary touching.

But none of that matters. Because Will knows. He knows without words just how deeply affected Hannibal is. Fierce joy roughens the timbre of his voice, spills from his eyes, vibrates through every inch of his animated frame. And all Will wants to do is drag him home, push him down onto that big bed of his - theirs - and...

'Don't you agree, Patrick?'

_Bastard. You knew I wasn't listening!_

Swipes a glass of champagne from a silver tray and a comment from mid-air.

'I'm starting to see the appeal.' 

A short silence ensues, bemused looks scattered his way. Clearly his reply bore absolutely no relation to whatever grandiose statement Hannibal had made and the amusement radiating from his teasing lover is palpable. The shrill warning bell saves Will from further embarrassment and the crowd moves as one, a glorious sweep of colour, streaming back into the auditorium.

Their box is enclosed, veiled from fellow patrons by scarlet walls and velvet drapes. A fitting backdrop for what Will has in mind.

_Payback._

'O buon Marcello, aiuto!' 

As poor abandoned Mimì staggers, coughing, through the streets of Paris, Will places a hand lightly on Hannibal's knee, shifts closer and murmurs in his ear, 'Were you having fun back there?'

Hannibal is staring down at the stage with every appearance of rapt concentration, but his breathing has quickened, muscles tensing beneath Will's palm as he slides his hand slowly upwards. 'Well?'

'Will,' Hannibal chides. 'Behave.' But there's no bite to his words and his eyes flash tenderness as he turns momentarily from the action below.

Taking advantage, Will leans in for a kiss. Hannibal obliges, but what starts out as a chaste brush of lips quickly turns messy and urgent as Will sucks on Hannibal's bottom lip and licks his way inside his mouth. At the same time his hand is busy, squeezing the meat of Hannibal’s thigh before travelling further up to brush delicately across his growing hardness. Fingers encircle his wrist, squeezing firmly, though not quite enough to bruise, stilling his movements.

'You're being exceptionally rude, Will.'

Voice low, rasping. A promise of retribution if he doesn't quit. A promise of disappointment if he does.

'I know.'

Curls his free hand around Hannibal's nape and moves in for another hot, open-mouthed kiss. This time, it's Will who pulls away after a few charged seconds, triumph rising as he senses Hannibal's reluctance to stop. Nevertheless, he's fixed with another glower.

'Unconscionably rude,' Hannibal growls. 

'I know.'

They're close, foreheads almost touching, breaths mingling. Will's heady with the scent of Hannibal's cologne, the stain of arousal on his cheekbones, the fierce glitter in his eyes that tells of control barely in check. And coiling around them, the plaintive strains of Puccini. Puccini and Hannibal. Not a bad combination, he decides. 

Hannibal's opinion of Puccini and Will is not so generous.

'You're ruining the opera.'

Unabashed, whispers, 'I know.' Puts his lips to the shell of Hannibal's ear. 'So maybe we should leave.'

'Before the fourth act?'

Will loves how the serial killing cannibal sounds faintly scandalised. 

' _Ha_ nnibal.'

Loves how Hannibal's eyes close briefly, throat working on a convulsive swallow. 

A faint tremor in Will's voice as words long denied, long suppressed, spill into the air between them.

'I love you. And I want you. Now.’ A gentle kiss against the tense plane of Hannibal's cheek. ' _Please_.'

They never make it to the fourth act.

***

Clothes discarded left and right. Lips slotting together. So good, so perfect. Both shirtless, tented pants rubbing together in delicious friction. Will’s slammed up against the bedroom door, arms pinned above his head as Hannibal sucks hungrily at his tongue, the curve of his neck, the centre of his chest, the tight bud of a nipple. 

'Incorrigible boy.' 

Knuckles trail down to brush over Will's erection. Jerks his hips into the touch, only for Hannibal to pull away.

' _Hannibal.. Ha..._ ' Reduced to pleading gasps as Hannibal reaches around, sliding his hand down the back of Will's pants, beneath his boxers. Eyes squeezed shut as long fingers trace the curve of his ass, seeking hidden places. 'Oh god, please.'

'Please what?' A low growl in his ear. 'What do you want, Will?'

Rubs his aching cock against Hannibal's through too many layers of cloth, both hissing their frustrated enjoyment.

'I want _you_. I want - I want you inside me.'

And just like that, the power shifts again.

Hannibal pulls back, grip on Will's wrists loosening. His gaze falters, a frown knitting his brow.

'Will, I -'

'Please.' Whispers words of hot seduction against his mouth. 'It's what you've always wanted, isn't it? To get inside me, any way you can?'

Hannibal presses their foreheads together. 'To know you utterly,' he breathes. 'Yes.'

'Do you - do you still want it?'

Hannibal's answer is a slow, deep kiss, eyes burning into his. Tugs him away from the door and down onto the bed.

A different dance, this, but no less beautiful than any of their others. An improvisation born of inevitability. Not such a far step from cerebral to physical connection, Will thinks dazedly before coherent thought is lost to sweet moans and fervent sighs. 

Final layers of clothing stripped away, face to face, hips rocking together, arms claiming. Hannibal's lips are hot against his stomach, peppering adoring kisses across his scar. Will's cock throbs between them, sticky and agonisingly hard. When Hannibal swipes his tongue along the slit, Will rears from the bed, fists grasping the sheets at his sides.

Thighs trembling as Hannibal's hands cup the flushed cheeks of his ass, fingers stretching them apart as he moves lower. Flicks out his tongue and Will is lost, lost to warm, wet, rasping sensation. He falls back, arm across his eyes, teeth clenched, pleasure twisting deep within as Hannibal's tongue laps across the sensitive rim. Never has he experienced anything like this: vulnerability tempered by worship, ecstasy tinged with fear.

Slick heat and the tip of a finger. 'Tell me you know what you're doing,' he chokes, arm still pressed tight across his eyes.

'I know what I'm doing,' Hannibal replies calmly, ragged breathing the only sign that he's as affected by this as Will. 

'What - what is that?'

'Organic lubricant with warming properties.' A pause. 'Do you really want a blow-by-blow account?'

Unfortunate choice of words. Will drops his arm and meets Hannibal's eyes, desire and amusement warring for dominance. And something else - something Will sees reflected back. A sort of ' _My god, look at us. Is this really happening? Can we really be this?_ ' inner monologue. 

But then Hannibal's eyes darken and he pushes inside and the amusement and the retrospection are banished, replaced by waves and waves of lust and possessiveness and _need_ and _yes_ and _more_. 

Will's gaze clings to Hannibal's as he's worked and stretched, a gently ruthless insistence in the way Hannibal scissors and twists and -

_Oh, dear lord, what was that?_

Moans and writhes as Hannibal's fingers stroke sweetly inside, over and over; Will feels his orgasm building, cock ramrod-stiff.

' _Ha-annibal_ ,' he gasps, back arching, brain screaming...

_So much, too much, not enough._

And then a new sensation: a slow persistent pressure as Hannibal guides the slicked head of his cock inside. A terrible, beautiful breaching of the last of Will's defences against this terrible, beautiful man.

Every scrap of breath is sucked from his lungs as he struggles to adjust, eyes still locked with Hannibal's. 

_Yours._  
_Mine._  
_We._  
_Us._

And there's something almost broken in Hannibal's expression as he begins to move. Hands clamped to Will's hips, kneeling between his thighs, he hoists Will's legs around his waist and slowly presses in. Even with the infinite care he's taken, there's no escaping the hot burn, and tears prick at the corners of Will's eyes. He tenses and Hannibal instantly eases back, withdrawing almost completely, only the tip still inside.

'N-no, d-don't. Don't go.' 

Reaches blindly, hand curving around the nape of Hannibal's neck, drawing him down. Hannibal comes willingly, hushing Will's fretting, pressing kisses to his forehead, his eyes, his mouth.

'Will. My Will.' 

Hannibal's words, the tender cadence, calm him. Hannibal's tongue, stroking against his own, working in and out of his mouth, reawakens the ache for fulfilment.

Whispers against those beautiful lips. 'Hannibal, _move_.'

Watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Hannibal kneels again, rocking forward and back, forward and back, each time penetrating a little deeper. Wraps his legs tightly around Hannibal's waist, more wanton and demanding with each snap of Hannibal's hips, lost in the pleasure-pain.

'More. Please. _Please_.'

A deep thrust, then - _ahh_ \- sweet ecstasy as Hannibal's cock brushes the sensitive nub inside. Tenderly relentless, fucking into him harder and harder, until Will is a panting, aching mess. 

'T-touch me.'

Hannibal's hand between their bodies, fingers wrapping around Will's straining cock, stroking him in jerky, uncoordinated pulls. And then he's coming, hard and fast, every pulsation ripping sobs from the back of his throat. Feels Hannibal follow and revels in the wet heat of seed spilt for the very first time within his trembling body.

Sinking into boneless pleasure, Will pulls Hannibal down on top of him. Seeks his hand. Threads their fingers together and squeezes tight. Hannibal's face is buried in the crook of his neck; Will presses soft kisses to hair that's mussed and slightly sweaty, just like his own.

'Don't move,' he murmurs. 

'I'm still inside you.' Voice slightly muffled, Hannibal nonetheless complies and a different kind of warmth suffuses Will's chest, a catch in his voice as he replies.

'Stay inside me.'

And Hannibal does.


	7. Of Routine and Surprises

In Will's opinion, the Avenida 9 de Julio is nothing better than a glorified racetrack and a blight on the city he is beginning to think of as home. In Juan's fearless hands, the Maybach does a good job of cutting through the swathes of lanes with the minimum of fuss, but it's Will's idea of hell.

Good job, then, that his office is only a twenty minute stroll from home.

After an intoxicating week of sex, intermittent sleep, food, work and more sex, he's shattered, dazed and slightly sore. Goes through his Friday morning appointments on automatic pilot, one eye constantly straying to the clock above the mantelpiece. 

_God, these people are dull._

His clientele is like a 'Who's who' of the rich, paranoid and vulgar. Not a sympathetic being among them and doubtless that was Hannibal's plan when he compiled the list. Possibly hoping for Will to be driven to a Bedelia-esque moment of violent impulse, though more likely it simply amuses him to know that Will's surrounded by whining multi-millionaires all day.

Finds himself sympathising with Hannibal's casually murderous proclivities when Emiliano Otero, ineffectual twenty-two year old heir to a chain of luxury hotels and his third appointment of the day, leans over the arm of his chair and paints the beige saxony carpet pink with splashes of vomit because he's still drunk from a Thursday night binge of cocktails and cocaine.

At half past twelve, Will strides out into the crisp autumn sunshine, lunch bag in hand, charcoal coat unbuttoned over a suit of light blue, and heads for his favourite plazoleta, a small square situated near Buenos Aires’ famous Obelisque. Spots a huge billboard advertising the Teatro Colón's next production, Tamerlano, and a grin splits his face as he recalls a murmured late night conversation with Hannibal.

***

Lying together naked and sated on top of their wreck of a bed, Will's head cushioned against Hannibal's chest, Hannibal's arms wrapped firmly around him as he curls into Will. 

'Come with me. Opening night is an experience not to be missed.'

'That's what you said about closing night,' Will mutters dryly.

'And was I not correct?'

'Yeah. But maybe not for the reasons you're thinking.'

A kiss pressed to the top of his head. 'I would imagine our reasons are fairly similar.'

Smiles at that and rolls onto his stomach, Hannibal loosening his grip to allow Will to turn over before tightening his arms around him once more.

'Are you ever going to let me out of this bed?'

There’s a wicked gleam in Hannibal's eyes. 'Not until you agree to my proposal.'

For a split second, Will's head is flooded with images of church bells, confetti and Hannibal standing at the foot of an altar in a pale suit and his heart skips. 

'Okay, I'll go.' 

Husky-voiced, grazing Hannibal's nose with his before leaning in to capture that full, tempting bottom lip. Slicks it with his tongue. Hannibal's hands frame his face, tongue teasing into his mouth, and heat floods straight to Will's cock.

There's no more discussion for quite a while after that.

***

As he waits to cross beneath the shadow of the iconic Obelisk, a prickling sensation awakens a suspicion in Will that he's being watched. Turns his head sharply and scans the area but the avenue is swarming with people. It's impossible to pin down exactly where the stare he feels like a brand on his skin is coming from. 

By the time he's over on the other side and stepping into the relative quiet of the tree-lined plazoleta, he's shrugged off the uneasy feeling. Forgets it altogether when he sees his favourite bench already occupied by a familiar tall, elegant figure in a cream linen suit, russet waistcoat and Panama hat.

Settles beside him and cocks an eyebrow. 'This is a surprise.' 

'A nice one, I hope.'

Presses his thigh against Hannibal's in a subtle gesture of affection. 'A very nice one.'

Hannibal's brought his own lunch box and they eat their sandwiches in companionable silence. Will brushes the crumbs from his lap and accepts the ripe orange that Hannibal proffers. Peels off the skin with his fingernails as he recounts the vomit story to his amused audience.

'I don't know what you're smiling about. You chose these morons.'

Pops an orange segment in his mouth and lifts his hand to lick at the juice that's running down the inside of his wrist. Fully aware of Hannibal's eyes on him. Hungry, possessive. 

'Meant only for your amusement, not as a tiresome burden. Don't go back to the office this afternoon. Come home with me.'

The seductive note in Hannibal's voice is not subtle. Will's tempted - god, how he's tempted - but years of professional conscientiousness are hard to shake.

'I can't. I have a carpet to clean and four more clients to be bored rigid by.'

Hannibal tsks. 'Hire a professional cleaner and cancel your appointments for the rest of the day. The office will need a thorough airing after Señor Otero's unfortunate accident, I’m sure you’ll agree?’

'I agree that it makes sense to cancel my afternoon clients but I'll still have to go back to the office to sort everything out.'

Amusement at Hannibal's pout as he stands. 

'What's the matter, Professor? Bored with academia already?'

Will means it to sound light-hearted but an unexpected edge has crept into his voice. Knows Hannibal's heard it too, from the slight narrowing of his eyes. Still, his reply is perfectly measured.

'I assure you, Will, after three years of incarceration, boredom is no longer an affliction from which I suffer. But perhaps there's something on _your_ mind?'

Will hovers uncertainly for a moment, then sinks back down onto the bench. An apologetic grimace.

'I suppose I'm still - adjusting. Sometimes I catch myself waiting to wake up from all this.'

'You miss your previous life?'

'Occasionally,' he admits, staring into the middle distance, a muddle of images overlapping in his brain: Wolf Trap, the dogs, the lecture theatre, his stream, Hannibal's office. A time of discovery, friendships, betrayal… Becoming.

'But you wouldn't go back.'

Frowns slightly. 'Ignoring the fact that it's a purely hypothetical question? No.'

'Because they deserve better.'

_They?_

Slowly becomes aware of the incongruity of the statement and the odd note in Hannibal's voice. Incredulity when he glances sideways and registers pain in those dark eyes.

'You thought I was talking about Molly and Walter? After everything _we've_ – Jesus. What's it going to take for you to trust me? I chose _you_ , didn't I?' Drags a hand across the back of his neck, frustration harshening his voice.

'My apologies.' Stiffly, eyes fixed straight ahead. 'Clearly I misunderstood.'

'Clearly,' he snaps back.

Awkward silence. Disconcerting to see Hannibal so vulnerable, so open. The light dims around them and Will's transported back to the hazy twilight of their partnership in Baltimore. Nights when the intimacy of shared confidences blurred the line between reality and fiction, allowing Will to indulge to dangerous limits the fantasy he had concocted; moments when Hannibal would look at him with such open adoration, it stole his breath and sent him hurtling into chasms of guilt-ridden confusion. That old guilt tugs at him now.

_He trusted you and you betrayed him with a smile. Just as he had betrayed you. Mistrust begets mistrust and doubt begets doubt..._

There's plenty of blame to go around. But after everything they've survived and the odds they've conquered, the idea that Hannibal entertains lingering doubts about Will's loyalty is unconscionable. He forces his pride down and words of explanation out.

'When I think about before, it's the routine I miss the most. Teaching my classes, walking the dogs, consulting with Jack... Our weekly appointments.'

'Seven-thirty conversations.' 

They share a long look. 

'Yeah.'

Shifts closer again with a wry shake of his head.

'We're really shit at this, aren't we?' 

Careful not to draw undue attention, he puts his hand over Hannibal's where it rests atop his lunch box. Seemingly having no such qualms, Hannibal lifts Will's hand to his lips. 

'I think we're getting better.'

'Careful, Doctor,' Will drawls, a reluctant smile curving his mouth. 'People will say we're in love.'

It hasn't escaped his notice that nearly a week after his own confession, Hannibal has yet to reciprocate. Yet the only response he gets is a soft chuckle and a final kiss pressed against his knuckles before he's released and they part ways for the remainder of the afternoon.

***

Opening night at the Teatro Colón truly is a sight to behold: they're queuing around the block this time, and as the Maybach crawls along the curb behind two Jaguars and an honest-to-god Rolls Royce, Will's taken aback by the pageantry and the noise.

'There's a red carpet.'

'Hm?'

Distracted by the vibration of his phone, Hannibal barely looks up and Will grinds his teeth in irritation. Whatever this mysterious purchase is that's been preoccupying Hannibal - and, surprisingly, Rosita - for days now, he wishes they would just get on and close the deal on the damn thing.

'I said, there's a red carpet. A red carpet and a goddamn rope line.'

'Mm.'

_Texting. Hannibal's fucking texting._

One hand on the door catch, Will's toying with the idea of jumping out and going in search of a whiskey at the bar when he catches sight of the couple exiting the Rolls, three cars ahead. And just like that, the world tilts on its axis and everything stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that the number of chapters has changed. That's because Chapter 9 turned into an absolute beast and needed to be divided in two! So there will now be ten chapters and an epilogue. 
> 
> My thanks as always to the lovely Llewcie for beta-ing, and to PKA for being my sounding board. I'm incredibly grateful to you both! 
> 
> *blows kisses*


	8. Of Fear and Deception

There's no plan. Just pure, nauseating panic.

'Juan,' he raps out sharply. 'Take us home. Now.'

'Señor?'

'Will?'

'Do it.' Keeps his voice low because if he raises it he fears he'll start screaming and never stop.

He catches the look that passes between Juan and Hannibal in the rearview mirror; an almost imperceptible nod from Hannibal and they're slipping back into the flow of traffic, leaving behind a blur of noise and colour and lights.

_Emeralds. Coral tulle. Long, shining hair coiled high. Grey satin and tumbling jet curls._

Juan's barely pulled the car to a stop and Will's out. Barrels through the front door and takes the stairs two at a time, straight to his old room. Makes a beeline for the dressing room: second closet, third drawer. Wrenches it open and stares down at the contents, heart pounding so hard he can hear it. Slamming the drawer shut, he wheels around and stumbles into the bathroom. Barely makes it to the sink before he's vomiting up the meagre contents of his stomach - the plan was for a late supper after the opera. 

_Not going to happen now._

_What is going to happen now?_

Will tries to _think_ but he's enveloped in a black mist of fear and anger and it's choking him. So he sheds his tux and tie, leaving them in a careless heap on the tiled floor; rolls up his shirt sleeves, cleans his teeth and splashes water on his face. Finally goes in search of Hannibal and finds him in their room, sitting on the edge of the bed, arms folded, waiting patiently.

'What happened? Tell me.'

And Will _means_ to tell him, really he does, but as he clicks the door shut and walks slowly forward, he's engulfed by a wave of longing so intense it paralyses him. Drops to his knees and lays his cheek against Hannibal's thigh.

'Can we just - not talk - please?'

Silence. Then the comforting weight of Hannibal's hand stroking his hair, repetitive, gentle.

'Whatever you need, Will.' 

Whatever he needs. Whatever he needs, Hannibal will give it to him. If it is in his power. And it's the same for Will. Because this is what they are now. 

_We fought so hard for this. Fuck fuck fuck._

Jerks his head up and grasps the lapels of Hannibal's tux, pulling him down into a desperate kiss. Bruising, wet, deep. On and on until Hannibal's dragging him up onto his lap and they're moaning into each other's mouths. Will reaches down between them and pushes the heel of his hand against the bulge in Hannibal's pants. 

'Will.' Hannibal gasps against his lips. 'Will.'

Scrambles to his feet, breathing erratically. Toes off his shoes; shoves his pants down and kicks them aside, eyes fixed on Hannibal's flushed face, seeing concern and desire warring for dominance. Leans forward and plants one hand on the bed. Presses the other to Hannibal's lips.

'Open,' he commands softly.

Without hesitation Hannibal obeys, and Will's eyes flash savage fire as he inserts three fingers into the warm cavern of Hannibal's mouth.

'Suck.'

Hannibal closes his eyes briefly, and when he reopens them he curls his tongue around Will's fingers and sucks hard, sending a jolt straight to Will's cock. At the same time he raises his hand and brushes his knuckles up and down Will's hard length. Will hisses, pushing into the contact, desperate to lose himself in this - in Hannibal - in the rapture that grips him every time their bodies become one. Without taking his eyes from Hannibal's, Will pulls his hand away and reaches behind; starts working himself open with feverish determination.

'Will, let me get the -'

'No.'

Leans in for another deep kiss to prevent Hannibal from moving. Presses their foreheads together, eyes half-closed, continuing to stretch himself. Whispers raggedly, breath ghosting over Hannibal's parted lips.

'Can't wait. Need you now. I don't want to live for another fucking second without you inside me.'

Glories in the moan that his words rip from Hannibal. Nevertheless, a firm hand on his chest prevents him from climbing back up. 

‘Please, Will. I don’t want to hurt you.’

Scowls but lets Hannibal up to fetch the damn lubricant. On his return, Will pushes him backwards onto the bed with a growl of impatience. In a lust-filled haze, he straddles Hannibal's thighs, warm stickiness already pooling. Unzips Hannibal's pants and pulls out his cock, barely allowing him time to pop open the cap on the bottle and pour slick warmth between them before he’s easing himself down onto the swollen head. Hannibal rasps his name, eyes glazed with adoration and that same all-consuming want. 

And this - this is what Will _needs_ , to take him out of himself, to fight through the suffocating black mist and keep it at bay. Even if only for a short while. The blunt press and the burn, because he wouldn't allow Hannibal to properly apply the lubricant. The pain, a welcome distraction as he sinks down with a long-drawn-out hiss. Waits for his body to adjust; bends to fuse their mouths again, tongues brushing, then arches back up, rolling his hips in languid circles, drawing another deep groan from Hannibal.

Hannibal's hands skim up his body, shaking fingers unbuttoning his shirt. Will shrugs it off, totally uncaring of the fact that he's now naked while Hannibal's still fully clothed. Wants only to _feel_ as he plants his palms on Hannibal's chest and rises up on his knees; pushes down again, angling his hips so that Hannibal's cock rubs tight against his prostate, the hot slide as Hannibal thrusts up into him sending him frantic with pleasure. With a snarl he presses Hannibal back into the mattress, fucking himself on Hannibal's rigid cock with such abandon, he almost unseats himself. Hannibal's hands come up to grasp Will's hips, fingers clenching tight, nails scoring flesh as they ride the storm together.

Will grasps his red, leaking cock and immediately Hannibal's fist closes over his own, moving with him in quick, short strokes, bringing Will to exquisite climax. And as he shudders through it, he feels the answering swell of Hannibal's orgasm, hips bucking in helpless, automatic response as he fills Will with his hot release.

Afterwards, though every instinct screams _go, go now_ , Will forces himself to relax. He presses into the hand that strokes the hair back from his forehead, sighs smiles against the lips caressing his, whispers reassurances in response to Hannibal’s tentative questioning.

 _‘I’m okay. We’re okay. Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow, I promise.’_

They shower together, throw on bathrobes and meander downstairs for an improvised cold supper. Will’s subdued but not silent. And when hand-in-hand they wander back up, Hannibal is visibly more at ease, the lines of tension in his face smoothed out.

Because Will is good at this. Compartmentalisation. Manipulation. Deception. Just as good as the man who lies now curled against his back, chest rising and falling in even beats.

Will waits.

And only when he’s sure Hannibal is fast asleep does he slip from their bed and scoop up his clothes. Shrouded again in darkness and suspicion, he lingers at the door watching Hannibal, flushed and peaceful. Wonders bleakly how many more chances he'll have to do so and his heart clenches at the thought of losing this.

 _Fuck that. And fuck them._

***

Hard to believe that only a few hours have passed, that the final notes of the opera have barely faded. Will can almost hear them languishing on the air as, just past ten o'clock, the streets around the Teatro Colón are once again cluttered with the rich and worthless. Easy for Will to mingle and observe. And maybe that'll be all he has to do. Maybe what his instinct has been screaming into his ear all night is wrong and he wasn't spotted on the Avenida 9 de Julio that afternoon. Maybe when he sneaks back into the house tonight his gun will still be tucked into the back of his pants. Maybe. He'll know when he sees _them_.

He doesn't have to wait long. Emerging from beneath the floodlit canopy, slender arms entwined, heads together in conversation, they step out onto the sidewalk. 

_Emeralds. Coral tulle. Long, shining hair coiled high. Grey satin and tumbling jet curls._

At first glance, both appear perfectly relaxed, and for a foolish moment Will allows himself to hope. But he looks more closely and the hope dies before it is even fully formed. Hands are clasped a little too tightly; eyes scan the area a little too frequently. As the Rolls that dropped them off materialises to pick them up, the steps they take down to the curb are slightly uncoordinated. They're worried. They're looking for something.

_They're looking for me._

Easy to follow the car on foot in the stop-start Friday night traffic. It's a short journey back to the Avenida Alvear, to the exclusive Park Hyatt Hotel where the couple emerge from the Rolls and hurry between the elegant columns of the hotel's front portico, disappearing inside.

And as the black mist swirling around Will's head turns red, he slips past the doorman into the hotel lobby, on the heels of Alana Bloom and Margot Verger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to give a special shout-out to the wonderful PKA for helping me solve some tricky issues with this chapter. Thank you, sweetie! Your advice was, as always, spot-on. <3


	9. Of Promises and Choices

They're staying in the Penthouse, occupying the entire top floor. Naturally. 

As he watches the elevator door ping shut behind them, Will hangs back, attempting to centre himself, to think, to _breathe_. Takes the stairs at a measured pace and uses the climb to consider the half dozen ways in which he could feasibly gain entry: everything from anonymous messages to just breaking down the goddamn door.

Discards them all, walks up and knocks. 

The door is pulled open almost immediately. _As if they were waiting._ He half expects to find Jack Crawford glowering disappointment on the other side, or at the very least a burly lackey packing a sidearm, but instead finds himself face-to-face with Margot. She's calm, only a slight crease between her brows betraying a hint of anxiety.

'Hello, Will.' As she stands to one side. 'Come in and have a drink. You look like you could use one.' And in a dry murmur as he stalks past her, 'I know I could.'

He steps into white opulence, hardwood floors, clean lines. A rectangular sitting room with interconnecting doors at left and right. Alana sits on a long couch beside the unlit fireplace. She stiffens as he approaches but doesn't get up. She looks good: lithe and healthy. He thinks of the last time he saw her, suspicion clouding her eyes as he laid out his entrapment plan in Jack's office. Well-founded suspicion as it turns out...

'Will.' Cold, resentful. A million miles from where they once were. Before Jack came calling. Before Hannibal came between them. When they were friends, verging on the almost childish fantasy of something else. They can barely even look at each other now. 'What can we do for you?'

'What can you..?' His brow creases, incredulity lending an edge to his voice. 'What are you _doing_ here, Alana?'

'We're celebrating our anniversary.' Margot upends three glasses on the polished bar and brandishes a bottle. 'Whiskey? For old times' sake?'

None of this is going the way Will envisaged and he can't figure it out. Where's the fear he sensed earlier? The darting glances into the secret corners of the Buenos Aires night? All he's getting now is a twinge of apprehension from Margot and downright dislike from Alana. Margot waves the bottle at him again. 

'Will?'

An abrupt shake of his head. Paces to the fireplace, mind racing. Something is off. Something is wrong. 

_Why aren't you afraid anymore?_

Margot's hands are steady as she pours a couple of fingers into two glasses and gently replaces the bottle.

'Love?' 

A tight smile from Alana as she accepts a drink. 

'Thank you, darling.' Lifts the glass to her lips and glares at Will over the rim. 'Well?'

'What are you waiting for? Congratulations?' he snaps. 

'That would be nice,' Margot interjects mildly as she seats herself beside Alana. Crosses her legs. Demure. Unthreatening. And _it's all just too damn casual._

Will narrows his gaze. 'You don't seem surprised to see me.' Weighing each word, thoughtful.

Margot shrugs. 'We saw you this afternoon.' A sad smile. 'You looked... happy.'

_I was._

'And presumably you saw us.' Alana's hostility isn't abating.

'I saw... ghosts.' Mouth firming, fingers itching to get this over with. 'And I can't help but wonder if you've been busy conjuring some of your own.'

And he knows the answer - _knows_ it - sees it clearly in the slightly heightened colour in Margot's cheeks, in the careful way they _don't_ glance at each other or at the door to their right, which is closed while all the other doors are wide open.

_They might as well post a fucking neon sign._

Takes a step towards them. Tone conversational, almost pleasant. 'Who's behind the door?'

 _Now_ they look at each other, gazes meshing in silent communication.

‘And don't lie.'

They don't lie. They don't say anything and a thrill of fear runs through Will. Not for himself. Not for Hannibal. But for _them._ For the life they've built here - the life he's finally allowed himself to want, accept, _need._

Fury - impotent and blinding - has him at last reaching for his gun. He can't bring himself to point it at them. Margot's had enough terrorising for several lifetimes and, fuck, he likes her. But they've put him in an impossible position and the red mist is rising again. So he makes a decision. Faces the door, steadies his stance and takes aim. Raises his voice to ensure that whoever's on the other side can hear him.

'Did you not stop to think about the consequences? For yourselves? For your son? Your precious Verger heir?'

'Morgan isn't here.'

Rounds on Alana, infuriated by her defiant tone. 'It doesn't fucking matter where he is. He can be orphaned from a thousand miles away just as easily as a few metres.'

Trains his gun on the door again. It's been a while but he knows the drill. Stands with feet shoulder width apart, hips at a forty-five degree angle to the door. Grips the gun in his right hand and pulls the slide back with his left to load a single round of ammunition into the chamber. He could fire now and the bullets would penetrate the solid wood as if it were paper. But he's curious. Whether it's Jack or half the Argentinian Police Force on the other side, he wants to look them in the eye before the world goes to hell. His world. His life with Hannibal. Allows himself one wistful moment to recall the peacefully sleeping form of the man he left warm in their bed only an hour ago, whom he loves beyond thought or reason, before yelling through the door, 'Ven a jugar. ¿Estás listo? Yo estoy listo.'

'This should be interesting.'

Barely enough time to register Margot's dry muttered comment before the round gilt handle starts to turn. He backs away from the door, trigger finger ready, snarling a rough paraphrase of his earlier challenge in English. 'So you're ready to play? Good. So am I.'

Except it turns out he's not ready. Not ready for the tall, black-clad figure that prowls into the room. Not ready for the gleam of steel - knife gripped tight in a gloved hand. Not ready for Hannibal. 

His arm falls to his side, the frantic thudding of his heart filling his ears, gun shaking in his hand.

'You,' he whispers fiercely, 'are supposed to be asleep.'

Hannibal regards him impassively. 'I couldn't sleep without you.' Low voice rough with accusation. And worse, disappointment. 

Will exhales harshly. 'I was trying to keep you out of it. How long have you known they were here?'

'Three days.' 

Hannibal's insouciant tone is infuriating.

'And you didn't think it worth mentioning?'

'I was trying to keep you out of it.'

_Oh, touché._

'Is that for me?' Indicating the knife.

Hannibal's sharp intake of breath cuts through the silence. 'If you really think...'

Holds up his hands placatingly. 'I don't.' 

'No, that would be for us,' Alana states coolly. 

'Merely a precaution,' Hannibal says smoothly, and as if to underline the point he places the knife on the mantelpiece. Looks pointedly at the gun. 'Will?'

But he's not ready to give it up yet. Flashes a look at Margot and Alana, both pale but composed and watchful, then back at Hannibal. 'So what's the deal? Are you here to make good on your promise?'

'And if I were?' Hannibal cocks his head to the side. 'Would you say, 'Stop. If you loved me you'd stop'?'

For a moment, Will considers. Would he? Take up his old, tattered mantle of morality and dust it off one more time? Play the hero? Stand between these exceptional women and vengeance glinting silver? 

_Risk losing the love of my life…_

Slowly he shakes his head. 'Not in a thousand years.'

'Not in a thousand years.' Hannibal's lips curve in a tender smile and he takes a step towards Will. 'That's my boy.'

Echoes of their conversation in Bedelia's kitchen. Now, as then, drawn inexorably forward, lost in the depths of that burning amber gaze.

'I won't let them take you from me.' Voice like splintered glass, eyes stinging.

Hannibal reaches out and cups Will's cheek, thumb stroking softly. 'I would never let that happen.'

Frowns, trying to make sense of it. 'What am I missing here?'

'We made a deal.' Margot rises slowly and Will swings around, incredulous.

'What kind of deal?'

'A life for a life.' Sipping her whiskey, she places a protective hand on Alana's shoulder. 

'Alana's life for... mine?'

'Our life as a family for yours.’ Her speculative gaze flicks between them. ‘Our silence for Hannibal’s mercy. No one will ever know we saw you here.'

Will turns to Hannibal, gaze sceptical. 'And you're just going to take them at their word?'

'Of course.' Hannibal bestows his most gracious smile on Alana. 'Because I know exactly where to find them... if ever I need to.' The telling pause sends a shiver through Will. 'You understand that now, don't you, Alana.'

'Yes, Hannibal.' Stony-faced, she looks steadily back at him. 'I understand.'

'We both do,' Margot interjects and Alana reaches up to squeeze her hand. 

And suddenly Will gets it. Hannibal has been tracking them all along. Maybe via Chiyoh, maybe someone else as yet unknown to Will – another protégé whose devotion to Hannibal knows no limits. It’s a conversation they’ll have to have one day, but for now Will contents himself with musing that perhaps Bedelia's decision to stay put after their escape had less to do with bravery than good old-fashioned fatalism. 

Still, he can't resist one final crack. 'What happened to 'I always keep my promises'?' 

Hannibal purses his lips. 'Most promises come at a price.' Trails his fingers down Will's cheek, eyes burning with an emotion so fierce, so pure, it stops Will's breath. Hannibal moves closer, his next words for Will's ears alone. 'If I were to extinguish Alana's life, Jack would never rest until he found us. Until he separated us. And I find that cost to be much too dear.'

A moment of perfect understanding, fragile as glass, shimmers between them. ‘Me too,’ Will whispers, gaze fierce, devout.

'Hannibal, Will?' Alana's voice, unexpectedly soft.

Hannibal drops his hand and Will closes his eyes briefly before snapping back to reality. Ejects the round from his gun and passes it to Hannibal, who slips it into his jacket pocket; puts the safety on, jams the SIG-Sauer into the back of his waistband and turns.

'Yes?'

She leans forward, drink cradled between her hands and, in the same gentle tone, 'Now that that's settled, will the pair of you please get the fuck out of our hotel?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Ven a jugar. ¿Estás listo? Yo estoy listo.’   
> Translation: 'Come and play. Are you ready? I'm ready.'
> 
> Thank you to Llewcie for betaing and to PKA for helping me to untangle various plot points. This was a tricky chapter to negotiate!


	10. Of Understanding and Reciprocation

They walk out together, silence stretching taut between them. Shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching; hands close together, fingers not quite brushing. Still so many unanswered questions. As they stand beneath the portico, waiting for a valet to deliver the Maybach, Will turns searching eyes on Hannibal.

'Okay, so now I know how you managed to get here before me. I'm still a little fuzzy on why.'

Hannibal is unruffled. 'When I discovered that Margot and Alana were in Buenos Aires, I made myself known to them.'

Will snorts. 'I'll bet that went down well.'

'You can imagine. But I needed to ensure they would not do anything... rash, should we all bump into each other.'

The car is brought round and Hannibal waits until they're both seated and belted to continue.

'When you reacted as you did at the Teatro Colón, I realised you must have seen them. So after you left the house, I contacted Margot.’

‘You warned her.’

‘And advised her to accompany Alana directly to the hotel.'

'Where you would be waiting.'

'Yes.'

Flicks his gaze over Hannibal's brooding profile. Wants to reach out but conflicting emotions stay his hand.

'You weren't asleep when I left.'

'No.'

'Why didn't you stop me?'

'Why didn't you take me?'

Neither has a satisfactory answer to give and Will turns his face to the window for the remainder of the short journey, lost in thought. 

A week ago, he would have left Hannibal at their front door with a muttered goodnight followed by several days of frigid silence after a stunt like this, but a lot has happened since...

'Let's have a drink.'

Leaves Hannibal to lock up and strolls into the formal drawing room, confident that he will follow. Pours two generous glasses of wine from a crystal decanter, leaves Hannibal's on the sideboard and perches on the edge of the cerise couch with his own, slowly swirling the crimson liquid around the bowl. Feels Hannibal's approach and takes a sip as he waits for him to settle beside him.

'I could have shot you.'

'I beg your pardon?'

His lips twitch as Hannibal checks himself, glass halfway to his lips.

'Through the door. Wood's no barrier to a semi-automatic.'

'I'll be sure to bear that in mind.'

_Oh, will you, now?_

'I thought the plan was for us to 'lie low' for a few years.'

'It is.'

Brings the glass to his nose and savours the rich woody notes, something he learned years ago, sitting across from Hannibal in the chair Will always secretly considered his. 

'I think,' he says carefully, staring into the depths of his glass, 'you wanted to see what I would do. You've been conducting a controlled experiment.'

'Is that what I've been doing?' Predictably inscrutable. 

Will places the glass on the exquisitely-patterned marquetry flooring at his feet, ignoring Hannibal's little cluck of disapproval as he does so. Plucks Hannibal's glass from his unresisting fingers and sets it down next to his own. Twists so he's facing Hannibal and cups his cheek, thumb stroking the fine bone beneath.

'Of course. You're Hannibal Lecter. I would expect nothing less.'

Hannibal’s gaze is questioning, serious.

'Then you no longer seek to change me?'

'If I required further change, I wouldn't still be here.' Leans in and places a gentle kiss on Hannibal's lips. They part on a low sound of encouragement and Will goes deeper, exploring, tasting the mingled sweetness of wine and Hannibal.

Warm hands curl at his waist, tugging him closer. When they part to breathe, a familiar flush stains both their cheeks.

'I'm still having trouble processing the fact that you let Alana go,' Will murmurs, rubbing his nose affectionately against Hannibal's. 

'I told you,' Hannibal replies absently, hands roaming again, pulling loose Will's tie and working free the buttons of his dress shirt. 'It was an easy exchange. I had no intention of losing you.'

Working past the lump in his throat, Will pushes for more. Wants Hannibal to say it.

'Why?'

Hannibal's eyes flick to his face, quizzical, before refocusing on his task. 'You know why.' 

As the final button slips free, Will places one hand over Hannibal's.

'I'd like you to tell me.'

A stillness comes over Hannibal. 'Are the words really so important?'

Will sighs. It shouldn't be this hard. 'No, not so important. Don't worry about it.'

'Will -'

Claims Hannibal's mouth again, tongue pressing in, fingers searching for the fastening of his black jeans. He traces the outline of Hannibal's stiffening cock with his forefinger, heat pooling low in his belly.

'Let's go upstairs,' he murmurs huskily against Hannibal's warm lips. 

'Will, I -'

'I want you in our bed. Now.' 

Enjoys Hannibal's sharp exhale, the darkening of his pupils, cock jumping beneath Will's stroking fingers. They move at the same time, mouths meeting in another long kiss; then, smiling, Will pulls back. Clasps Hannibal's hand and tugs him up from the couch. 

In their bedroom they strip each other bare, pausing intermittently to exchange hot, open-mouthed kisses; hands roam across heated flesh, drawing low sounds of delight from one another. Arms looped around Hannibal's neck, fingers twined in his hair, Will presses their pelvises flush together. Groans as their swollen lengths connect.

'What do you want?' A whispered kiss against Hannibal's lips.

'You.' Hannibal splays his hands across Will's back; strokes lower, fingers dipping into the crease between his cheeks.

'How do you want me?' 

Hesitation. 

_Interesting._

'Hannibal.' Draws away slightly, eyes searching. ' _How_ do you want me?'

Another pause.

'Inside me.' Voice rasping. 'I want you inside me, Will.'

'Oh god.' Will drops his head onto Hannibal's shoulder, heart hammering; slides his hands down to rest against Hannibal's chest, crisp hair and firm muscle beneath his palms.

'Will?' 

Jerks his head up, lips parted on a soundless gasp. 'Yes. God, yes, I want that. I want to be inside you.'

Walks Hannibal backwards to the bed and pushes him down. Crawls up over him, dripping cock curving towards his belly. Wraps a hand around Hannibal's fullness and slowly thumbs the glistening slit. At the same time, he bends to brush his lips across Hannibal's chest. Captures a nipple and sucks lightly, tongue flicking over the nub, enjoying the moans he's eliciting from the man stretched out beneath him. Surges up and kisses him, wet and hot. 

'Turn over.'

Hannibal closes his eyes, throat working. 'Will, are you -'

Gentle but insistent. 'Now, please.'

Hannibal rolls onto his front, breathing ragged. Will slides from the bed and pads over to the dressing table. Opens the top drawer, extracts the bottle of lubricant and goes back. Kneeling up, he pauses. Trails one hand gently down Hannibal's back, tracing the raised ridges of the circular brand which mars the smoothness of his skin.

_Fucking Mason Verger. He got off way too easy._

'I want - I want to kiss you.' Strokes his fingers down, down, teasing them into the deep cleft. 'Here. Where you've kissed me.'

A deep groan rumbles up from Hannibal's chest. Drawing up his knees and tilting his hips, he buries his face in his arms. Repeats Will's name over and over - a litany of worship. And Will wants nothing more than to worship him in turn. Spreads smooth cheeks with his hands and bends with a reverent sigh. Experimentally, he flicks once against the tight entrance, drawing another low groan from Hannibal. Encouraged, he repeats the action. Again. Again. And soon he's lapping eagerly at the puckered flesh, pausing every now and then to anoint it with sucking kisses. Stops, panting for breath, cock throbbing painfully at the sight of Hannibal, flushed and writhing and ruined. Emboldened, intoxicated by the pleasure he's giving, he dives back in, pushing the tip of his tongue inside. A loud, ragged moan is ripped from Hannibal's throat and Will raises his head, gaze darkly aroused.

'Hush. Hush, my love.'

Grabs the bottle and slicks them both up. Teases and strokes and stretches with infinite gentleness, pulling increasingly desperate sounds from Hannibal.

And as he takes himself in hand, rubbing the reddened head of his cock over Hannibal's glistening rim, he's filled with an exultation so fierce, it brings tears to his eyes. For surely no power on earth could be greater than this. Knowing that Hannibal is _his_. To claim, to take. To _love_ with a savage intensity that would have terrified Will from Before, who cursed it and denied it and ran from it so many times. New Will embraces it, revels in it, delights in it, knows he would burn down the world to keep it. To keep _them_.

_We._   
_Us._

_Always._

Neither of them speaks as he presses in, though soon he's gasping, pleasure spiking as Hannibal squeezes around him, muscles contracting and releasing, over and over. Still Will moves with agonising slowness, unwilling to thrust too deep the first time, until with a hungry sound Hannibal pushes back, impaling himself on Will's cock.

'Hannibal, _fuck_.'

'Will.' A deep groan of pure need. 'Please. _Please._ I need to feel you within me. _I need you._ '

Hannibal's plea - _his mating call_ \- awakens something primal and possessive within Will. He grasps Hannibal's hips and sinks deeper. Finally, gloriously, sheathes himself fully within that hot, tight passage.

'Are you - are you okay?' The words choked out. Holds still, forcing himself to wait for Hannibal's reply. 

'Yes,' Hannibal rasps. 'More.'

With a deep sob he moves, rocking back and forth, in and out, the slick slide sending him into a delirium of pleasure.

_Mine._

_Always._

Nothing exists for Will in this moment but the sweet music of Hannibal's moans and the heat of his body. One hand tight on Hannibal's hip, he reaches around with the other and takes him in hand. Squeezes and strokes his leaking, throbbing length, breath hitching in exquisite sympathy as he jerks Hannibal roughly to shuddering completion. Feels his own crescendo building and increases the tempo of his thrusts, the snap of his hips frantic now, cock swelling and pulsing as he cries out, shooting his release deep inside Hannibal.

Will lays his cheek against Hannibal's back, eyes squeezed shut, as they both try to control their laboured breathing. Stays inside Hannibal for a few more precious seconds, wanting to hold on to that incredible feeling of closeness - of oneness - for as long as possible. When finally they separate, collapsing side by side, Hannibal waits only a few moments before tucking Will into his side. Strokes back his damp curls. Murmurs in a voice choked with emotion, punctuating his words with kisses against his temple.

'My beloved. My darling. How I love you, Will.'

And of course he knew. But to hear the words fall from Hannibal's lips like the sweetest of caresses is infinitely, indescribably precious.

Will wraps his arms around Hannibal, closes his eyes and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there! Chapter 11 is the epilogue and I wrote the final sentence about thirty seconds ago so I'm feeling quite emotional right now! It will be posted next Sunday, after it's been given the once-over. Speaking of which, my thanks as always to Llwecie and PKA for betaing and advice. You've been truly wonderful!


	11. Of We and Us

Will Graham is happy.

Two weeks on and the Verger-Blooms have gone: exit discreet, promises intact. Emiliano Otero, the cocaine-snorting hotel heir, is about to be arrested for possession with intent to distribute on the back of an anonymous tip ( _thank you, my love_ ). And Hannibal's long-sought-after acquisition is finally on its way. Will just hopes he's not going to stick it in the middle of the foyer - the acoustics would be fabulous but he'd never be able to get away from the damned sound.

Another Sunday. Will wakes late, jumps in the shower, towels his hair dry and combs it back. Throws on faded jeans and a soft blue button down.

Wanders into the kitchen, jaw cracking on a yawn, looking forward to a lazy day. Hannibal's at the range, ridiculously gorgeous in black jeans and the red cashmere sweater Will loves. Will comes up behind him. Slides his arms around Hannibal's waist and presses his cheek against his back. 'Hey.'

'Hey yourself.' Half-turning, Hannibal claims a greedy kiss. Will sinks into it. Into him. The man he can't stop staring at, every day, wondering how they got here. How it is they're still alive, still together and, even more miraculous, still happy. 

Halfway through breakfast, Rosita bustles in, red-cheeked and uncharacteristically flustered. She glances from Hannibal to Will and back again. 

'It's here,' she says shortly. 

Hannibal smirks. 'Excellent.' 

'Really? You think so?' Doubt evident in her tone.

Will pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes flicking between the two of them. 'What's the problem?'

Instead of answering, Hannibal pushes back his chair, stands up and extends his hand. 'Come.'

Hand-in-hand they walk out to the entrance hall. As Will had predicted, Hannibal's acquisition has been placed squarely in the centre. As Will had predicted, the acoustics are impressive. However...

'That is _not_ a harpsichord.'

Hannibal glances at him quizzically. 'Your powers of observation continue to astound me, Will.'

Hunkering down, Will stares into the dog crate at what appears to be an Australian Shepherd Golden Retriever mix puppy. Brindle coat, bright eyes.

'It looks like Winston,' he comments huskily, pressing one hand tentatively against the side of the crate. The puppy immediately scampers forward and attempts to lick Will's fingers through the bars. 

'She does.'

Will glances up. 'How old is she?’

‘Thirteen weeks.’

You went looking for another Winston?'

'To a degree. That is, Rosita did, armed with specific search criteria.' There's an irresistible note of mischief in Hannibal's voice as he adds, 'I have named her Encephalitis.'

'The hell you have.' But Will's voice remains soft and he smiles widely at the wriggling fluff ball as she tries frantically to dig her way out. 'Hello, Encephalitis. Hello, Ceph.'

They install her in the utility room off the kitchen. It's large, airy and leads out into a high-walled courtyard. Despite all her tsking and head-shaking, Rosita has organised this down to the last detail, from gourmet puppy food and toilet pads to a raised bed and numerous chew toys.

After an hour of enthusiastic sniffing, exploring and play, the puppy's showing signs of flagging, so Will pops her back in the crate.

'Let's leave her to sleep for a couple of hours. Puppies need a lot of rest and she's probably stressed out from the journey.' Clambers to his feet and addresses their housekeeper, who's eyeing the crate dubiously. 'Rosita, are you sure she won't be too much of a nuisance down here?'

Rosita snorts. 'Nuisance, yes. No question. But she can't be more trouble than this one, yes?'

'Oh, definitely not.' Straight-faced, ignoring Hannibal's derisory huff as together they start clearing away the remains of breakfast.

They take fresh cups of coffee up to the second floor sitting room, an odd silence filling the spaces between them as each gravitates to his favourite spot, Hannibal stretching out on the couch, Will standing by the window. Morning sunshine streams in, crisp and bright. Will enjoys its enveloping warmth as he takes cautious sips of the hot, bitter liquid. 

'You're very quiet. Did I do the wrong thing?'

Turns to find Hannibal eyeing him speculatively. He tilts his head, considering. 'Not wrong. Just - unexpected.'

'You would prefer predictability?'

A slight smile. 'Hannibal, the last thing you could ever be is predictable. And that's fine.'

'But?'

'There has to be a 'but'?'

'There usually is.'

'Seems _I'm_ the predictable one,' Will drawls. 

He strolls around the couch and perches on the arm. Immediately finds himself snared by a possessive arm and settles into its familiar, comforting weight.

'I just want to make sure this isn't another attempt at teacup-mending.' Cards his fingers through Hannibal's hair, touch gentle, eyes tender. 'Not that I have any objection to a dash of cosy domesticity, but it's not necessary to try to replicate anything from before. We should be looking forward, not back.'

The arm around his middle tightens. 'And when you look ahead, what is it you see for us?'

_Church bells, confetti and Hannibal standing at the foot of an altar in a pale suit..._

Will blinks. 'This. Us. Keeping our heads down. For a while, anyway.'

'And afterwards? When cosy domesticity begins to pall?'

'Hard to imagine.' Tugs gently at the strands caught between his fingers, tilting Hannibal's head back, and bends to drop one kiss, then another, on lips already softened in anticipation. 'But I seem to recall something about a bloody rampage across South America, raising holy hell.' 

Hannibal's eyes gleam. 'Something to look forward to.'

Hunger rises between them. Languid kisses turn needy, tongues slipping between parted lips, hands groping and fondling.

A short trip from the couch to their bedroom, stumbling and whispering like recalcitrant teens, mindful of Rosita's presence in the house. 

And then Hannibal's mouth is pressed against Will's, body pinning him to the bed as he's slowly stripped, and the laughter stops, replaced by heat and urgency and rapturous pleasure. And soon all Will cares about is Hannibal's tongue, licking his sensitive nipples to glistening red peaks, and Hannibal's hands, stroking his thighs and ass and stomach, and Hannibal's swollen cock, sliding in and out of him. Slowly, so slowly, then fast and hard as Will pleads and pants and moans for _more, now, fuck_. He squeezes around it, delighting in Hannibal’s sweetly responsive groans, feeling his heart swell with love for the man he left everything to follow. 

He wants to scream it aloud but instead, as they cling together in the afterglow, Will chokes it out in harsh, shuddering breaths against Hannibal's neck.

'I love you. I love you. Oh _god_ , how I love you.'

Afterwards, they doze in each other's arms until lunch. Then another hour with Ceph, introducing her to the joys of the courtyard and a meal that Will insists on preparing from scratch, raiding the fridge for fresh cuts of meat as a bemused Rosita boxes up the gourmet puppy food for donation to the local dog shelter. Hannibal's amusement is palpable.

Later, the puppy safely stowed in her pen, they shrug on lightweight jackets and take a stroll around the neighbourhood. It's unseasonably warm, lines of stout feather palm trees baubled with gaudy clusters of orange fruit offering intermittent shade. 

The streets are quiet, and when the back of Hannibal's hand brushes tentatively against his, Will threads their fingers together. Feels Hannibal's eyes on his face, a question lurking in their maroon depths.

'What is it?'

'Alana and Margot.'

'They're gone.'

'Yes. There is still a chance, however, of them betraying us. Our situation has been compromised and that is unacceptable.'

Will tightens his grip.

'What are you suggesting? A change of address?' After all his bitching about the square footage of their uber-luxurious mansion, Will feels a ridiculous pang at the thought of leaving. Here they became a family. Here they created a home.

'A change of country.'

'Wait, _what_?' Coming to an abrupt stop, Will searches Hannibal's face. 'Don't you think you're over-reacting?'

Hannibal's expression remains impassive. 'Not at all. I have merely re-evaluated my priorities in light of recent developments.'

Despite the consternation bubbling up inside, Will feels a tugging warmth. 'You mean you don't want to lose me now that we're... involved. Not,' he adds wryly, half to himself, 'that we were ever really _not_ involved.'

A faint blush tinges Hannibal's cheeks. 'Perhaps.'

'Hm.' Stepping closer, Will slips his free hand beneath Hannibal's tan jacket to rest possessively on his waist. 'Okay, I admit there's a possibility the Verger-Blooms might decide to send Jack our way. So… where do you think we should go?'

Hannibal makes a small, pleased sound and nuzzles into Will's hair. 'Somewhere with no extradition to the US.'

'Even if it means narrowing your options when it comes to your beloved art and culture?'

Teasing, affectionate, Will tilts his face up in invitation, pulse quickening as Hannibal immediately dips his head, lips seeking his in soft exploration. They share a lingering kiss, tongues stroking languidly, bodies barely touching. When they part to breathe, they resume their slow stroll and the thread of conversation, fingers still entwined.

'Even so, although as it happens such a sacrifice will not be necessary. I have a house in Cuba.'

'Dare I ask how many bedrooms?' 

'Only three. And four bathrooms.'

'How restrained of you.'

Hannibal's deep chuckle prompts an answering grin. Will can't remember ever having been this happy. It elates him and pisses him off in equal measure. 

_So much wasted time. So much pain in futile resistance. When I was Hannibal's all along._

At the northern intersection of the Avenida Alvear, they take a right turn onto the Plaza San Martin de Tours, a small park consisting of grassy slopes surrounded by a myriad of dusty paths, over which loom a tangled canopy of gnarled gum trees. 

Tugging Hannibal down onto a slatted wooden bench overlooking the central green, Will leans back and closes his eyes. 'Mm. Beautiful day.'

'We can't stay long,' Hannibal warns. 'Your puppy will soon be requiring attention again.'

'Your idea, _your_ puppy,' Will counters dryly, adding with a quiet snort, 'Encephalitis.'

'It seemed appropriate.'

'Bastard.' A reproachful growl but lacking in bite. He feels the gentle squeeze of Hannibal's fingers and returns the gesture before their hands separate. 

'You have forgiven me for that.' Part statement, part question. The faintest trace of lingering uncertainty. But there's no need.

'For that, for all. Turns out the secret to a successful relationship is communication.' Eyes still shut, face turned upward, enjoying the mellow caress of autumn sunshine, Will recites, 'I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end.' 

'As easy as that?'

He huffs a laugh. 'Nothing _easy_ about you and I, Doctor. Not even remotely. But it seems that over time the parameters of my tolerance... widened. The fact that I was in love with you probably had something to do with it. Besides, _who holds the devil, let him hold him well_ , right?'

A kiss, gentle against his temple. 'Remarkable boy.' The slight tremor in Hannibal's voice should warn him but Will is totally unprepared for what follows, eyes flying open in shock as two words are whispered against his skin. 'Marry me.'

Jerks his head around and stares at Hannibal, who returns his gaze with eyes shining, diamond bright. 

'I was content to navigate this world alone, Will. Until you found me. Even when you didn't know all that I was, you knew _me_. Saw me. I know I will never find your equal. I know I will never love another. I love you, Will. And I want you to be mine. Always.'

Will's throat constricts and he swallows hard. Brings his hands up to cup Hannibal's face, leaning in until their lips are almost touching. 

'I _am_ yours,' he affirms huskily. 'That was a done deal a long time ago.'

As Hannibal raises a hand to trace the faded scar on Will's cheek, his fingers are trembling.

'Is that a yes?'

With infinite gentleness, Will inches forward. Rests his forehead against Hannibal's and hums against the curve of that beautiful mouth, tensed as he awaits Will's answer.

'Murder Husbands? Freddie Lounds would have a field day.' He pulls back slightly, meeting Hannibal's anxious gaze. Grins. 'Sounds like fun.'

A split second to register fierce adoration and relief blazing in dark eyes before his lips are claimed in a searing kiss. Wraps his arms tightly around Hannibal's waist and opens his mouth beneath his, surrendering to the aching beauty of the moment. Surrendering to Hannibal. To them.

_We._  
_Us._

_Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Before I sign off, I would like to say a few specific thank yous. To [Llewcie](http://llewcie.tumblr.com/), who very kindly beta'd for me and showed me how to navigate the wonderful world of Google Docs! To [Arkarti](http://arkarti.tumblr.com/), for creating such stunning art work for Volume 1 and bringing to life [my favourite scene](http://68.media.tumblr.com/09444981a5b0988a9972192a264fc500/tumblr_odrh5af8SP1rrux9go2_r1_1280.jpg) in the entire fic. To [@drhanniballectermd](http://drhanniballectermd.tumblr.com/), for creating beautiful art work for Volume 2, conveying all the tenderness and closeness that Will and Hannibal have achieved by the end. To [PKA](http://pka42.tumblr.com/), for offering advice and insight as the fic progressed. To [wraithsonwings](http://wraithsonwingsposts.tumblr.com/), for encouraging me throughout the entire process. And finally, to each and every one of you wonderful people who read my little fic and left kudos, who took the time to leave amazing and generous and often truly beautiful comments, who reblogged on Tumblr and cheerleaded again and again. I am truly humbled and thankful for you all. 
> 
> I'll leave you with that gorgeous art work! Thank you all. I love you!
> 
>  

**Author's Note:**

> Will and Hannibal, by the wonderful [@drhanniballectermd](http://drhanniballectermd.tumblr.com/)!
> 
>  


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